Gloved
by Spirit of dawn
Summary: A strange houseguest in the Swann mansion picks up a thread long lost in the past, and a plot unfolds, that will shatter the lifes of many, and leave nothing unchanged in its wake. Story starts after CotB, ignores the sequels. WE, JNOC, JSOC
1. And so empty the skies

A/N: That's it. Finally I am sending this plot bunny to the world. Maybe against my better knowledge – who knows, where it will lead me? - but the idea has been persistent and just flatly refused to leave me in peace – so here we go, and hopefully you will like it.

What to say as an introduction for this story? It takes place after the „Curse of the Black Pearl", ignoring „Dead man's chest". Don't get your hopes up, it will affirmatively continue ignoring the second movie, not because I did not enjoy it, but because the story which came to my mind does not work with DMC.

I will, however, steal one or two motives from the film, just because they were too good to pass on, mere sceneries, put into a different context.

It is all about... well, who knows. All about all of them, maybe? Or just all about James Norrington and his way through treacherous waters? All about Susannah Delanney and a way she never would have liked to thread? All about Elizabeth Swann, torn between what seems right and what is wanted?

I do not know yet – bear with me and we will find out together...

* * *

Disclaimer: Of course, almost none of this is mine. I am borrowing, and I am trying not to break anything.

* * *

**Prologue:**

****

**And so empty the skies**

He had called one of the soldiers to turn his table to face into the room first thing when he came back. He could not stand to watch the sea any more. He had deliberately placed his working space up here, looking over the white and blue bay of Port Royal to always remember, why he was here, and what challenge he had risen up to.

He had dreamed of conquering the sea. His first time on a ship, he had felt the exhilerating emotion of being in control of an ever changing element, of challenging what could not be challenged and emerging as its master. The sea, though it had to be respected, had proven to be a worthy opponent to be conquered, and he had devoted his life to it.

Now, however, things had turned out to be quite different.

It was the sea, that had conquered him, his control of the situation, of his life even, slipping through his finger like the water it was, and it had taken with it what was as uncontrollable, as fascinating and ever changing as the ocean itself.

Elizabeth.

So much these two prizes of his life seemed to be alike, he could not stand to watch the one without being reminded for the other. And thus Commodore Norrington refused to continue to watch the sea.

The order came out harsher than intended, not the cool controlled tone he usually preferred when talking to his subordinates, but he failed to regret it, his mind being firmly fixed on other things. However, this was the only outward sign of just how irritated he was.

Yet, maybe irritated was not quite the expression, truth to be told. He would have preferred it, though. Being irritated had a nice sound to it, a touch of scorn, mingled together with a note of annoyance, an emotion, that, however profoundly felt, stayed on the surface of mind and heart, like a knife scratching porcellain – causing a nasty sound but no lasting damage.

This, however, was not the truth. In fact, if asked, he would have had to admit that the marks left upon him this day were quite sure to last. Fortunately, there was no one in the position to ask that very question. Neither Elizabeth Swann, being the cause and reason for his current state of mind, nor her father, who had taken it upon himself to aid him in his carreer as one might do for a future son-in-law. And, still much less the two soldiers that currently struggled with the big mahagoni table, trying to turn it around to face the door without inflicting too much damage on the floor.

And so irritated it was. At least, as long as no one took a closer look.

Truth to be told, no one was likely to do so. He did not exactly inspire trust and friendship in those around him, and he did this with full intention. Loyality, yes, this was, what his life was about, but loyality was an affection towards something much more insubstantial. Loyality to an idea, a country seemed to be a much more fitting thing for a naval officer, dedicating his life to the sea and the service.

Loyality, however, had not been enough for her.

It was not all he had. But it was all he had offered. And even now, he was not sure whether to regret or to cherish his restraint on that part. He was not altogether convinced that opening himself to the formidable Miss Swann would have tipped the scales in his favour, and thinking about facing the rejection he had experienced today after showing, what he barely dared to admit to himself was... simply not an option.

The ground shook slightly as the table finally settled, the two soldiers sweaty in the afternoon heat. He had not even watched their toil, his gaze firmly fixed on some point at the wall, and now he dismissed them with a distracted wave of his hand. Both of them were more than glad to comply. The Commodore was known for his strict but fair regime, and neither of them really felt guilty about one thing or another, however, considering the current circumstances, things might be a little different at the moment. The door falling into its lock behind them they left the Commodore to silently ponder what had happened – and what had not.

Norrington sat down at the table, still upright as if to pick up the neatly piled papers at any moment, to look through it and to decide what had to be done, but his gaze was unfocused, as he stared at his hands placed flatly upon the wooden surface. And then, with slow, determined movements, he removed the ring from his finger. His hands were trembling, ever so slightly, and finally, when he had removed this apparent sign of his failing engagement to Elizabeth, it fell from his fingers as if his power were totally and utterly spent.

The sound of metal on wood tore the silence in the room, only to be joined by the sounds of his laboured breathing, as truth slowly began to sink in.


	2. A hustler's town

A/N: I figured, to give you an idea of where I am going, one chapter definitely is not enough. Therefore – enjoy number two.

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

**A hustler's town**

There are those who say, that even the biggest stories have the smallest of beginnings, that even a springtide must begin with a small rippling wave.

Susannah might have agreed, and it may be doubted that, even though she tried to recall the incident later, she ever fell to remember the chance encouter on the docking bay, that seems to be so fit a starting point for a story to tell. It may even be doubted that this beginning is the best of all, the worthiest bit to pick up this tale, for who knows, that this small wave was the first to lick on the sands of the shore, that there was no other beginning, more fitting and more accurate, that simply went unnoticed, because there is no one who remembers?

So this story is picked up at the point that seems the most adequate the chronist can imagine, being the first and earliest event connected to the story that any of the participants clearly remembers.

Which leads to Commodore Norrington, who, at least concerning this very tale, would have disagreed profoundly and heartily with the introducing statement.

It did not beginn with a breeze. It began with a roll of thunder.

Now the phrase above may sound like one of the novels speaking of strange attractions and head-over-heels, action, but I can assure you, that this particular roll of thunder was of a completely different sort.

* * *

The sky had turned a brilliant blue the day after the escape of Captain Jack Sparrow from the highest realms of the Port Royal fort, and the hot carribbean sun left the faroff horizon to blur together with the calm sea, that lazily licked the piers of the port.

The city was bustling with activity, people strolled purposefully through the roads on their various errands, not minding each other, a morning like so many the city had seen.

A hustler's town, was, what came to the mind of the Commodore as he found his way between the townsfolk, headed towards the Dauntless, which, mightily surveying the port activity, had lain anchor and was prepared for leaving. A hustler's town, where much was possible, where the strict regime of british society had been loosened, to give way to a world, where questions of status were no longer the biggest issue in question.

Such a world it was, where the govenor's daughter would prefer a blacksmith over a commodore of the Royal Navy. He cut this thought short, just as it came to his mind. He had not slept during the last night, trying to find solace from her haunting face in his dreams, but sleep had not come, with the result of him feeling overwrought, tired and, though he would have thoroughly denied such an accusation, queasy.

He longed to be out on the sea again, chasing Sparrow as he had promised he would. Days far from Port Royal, far from Elizabeth's face and Turner's happy glow would do wonders for him.

He made it a point to avoid looking towards the governor's mansion some steps up the hill. Governor Swann had told him, yesterday, just before he in plain and simple words fled the scenery, that he still would be welcome there, despite the change in circumstances, but he had only choked out some polite reply he did not even remember now and said his excuses. He had spent the time since then in a state of detached shock, feeling a hurt he could not definitively place, and harbouring the unsettling notion that his current state of mind was still protecting him somehow from grasping how much his life had changed in oh so few hours.

He feared the moment, when this protection would finally wane.

He neared the docking bay, frowning at the ship being prepared. He had decided to depart with the afternoon tide, but preparations were being far from satisfactory. He took a deep breath and quickened his pace, quite willing to unleash his irritation and uneasiness on his subordinates, who, with the apparent laziness of men being unwatched, had taken their sweet time to bring the Dauntless in the state that she was now.

He was close to running, the boots leaving a trail of sounds on the floor. He did not exactly watch his step – the Commodore of Port Royal was more than used to others watching where he was going and, out of respect, clearing his path when he was purpusefully striding somewhere.

She, however, seemed not to have done this. She crashed into his side with the full force of a confident pace, causing him to loose his balance. He tumbled sideways, took a step or two to recover, while the other participant in this sudden clash seemed off-foot as well, hands grasping at what she could get to steady herself.

What she got, was his shoulder, and he felt a weight heavily being put onto him.

For an instant, he was angry. As said, before, he under normal circumstances did expect some sort of respect from those he had sworn to protect, and hustler's town though this might be, he had yet to observe such a decline of common tact, where the commodore made way for the peasant.

And so, his first impulse was, to whirl around and bite a sharp commentary at the unknown disturber. No yell, it was not naturally in his demise to do so. Biting irony, cold glance, these were the weapons Norrington resorted to.

He would have followed that impulse, but on whirling around, the weight was lifted from his shoulder and from the corner of his eye, he saw a slender figure staggering backwards.

He might have seen her before, even though he could not place her face. She had tumbled back some steps to stare at him without any further motion, and it was the look on her features, that stilled any words he had planned on uttering.

Considering the situation, he would have expected distress, shock maybe, even a hint of scorn would have been – at least explicable, however what he got seemed totally out of place of the situation.

For the features of the woman facing him was contorted in pure, terrifying fear.

„Don't..."

Her voice was raspy, trembling, and slowly she lifted both hands, as if to keep him at bay, while the look on her face had all of a sudden driven any thought of anger from his mind.

„Don't turn south to the archipele...", she whispered, a slow shake of her head underlining her words. „Don't listen to the snake."

He stood, transfixed, a soft frown frozen on his features as he tried to make sense of the strange gibberish the young lady uttered. But she turned, without any further glance, without any further ado. The world continued to spin, and when the strange words had finally sunken in, she was gone already, vanished between the workers and trespassers of the port.

A hustler's town. Indeed.


	3. Everything just a step away

A/N: Number three, last one for today. If you like, send me a message whether you like it or not...

Greetings

Spirit

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

**Everything just a step away**

Commodore James Norrington had – due to changing, unforseen and altogether unfanthomable circumscances – made it a point to break his usual habit of stepping by the governor's residence upon departure for the seas this very day.

Feeling himself to be the protector of Port Royal, his work required a close cooperation with Swann, and the presence of Elizabeth had all the more sweetened his brief visits in the mansion, and so today's departure was the first after a long time, that saw the commodore depart the port without explicitly paying his respects to the governor.

From a neutral point of view, from a storytellers point of view – even maybe from the point of view of someone wishing the best for the commodore, it is a shame he took this very day to break that special habit of his. On the other hand – this can easily be said on a moment's impulse, and further considerations of the circumstances might lead to another point of view.

However, about the time that James Norrington had surveyed the preparations on the Dauntless, estimated the time it would still take to be able to set sail, a lone figure reached the iron fences of the governor's mansion, stepping through unhesitating and unhindered.

* * *

Had the circumstances been normal, this would have been about the time, when James Norrington would stand in the entrance of the house, exchanging pleasantries with Witherby Swann, hoping to get a glimpse of Elizabeth, but circumstances had not been normal, and if they had been, the lone figure would not have taken it upon herself to take the way up the hill where she was going. Considering this, there was no one to be surprised when Susannah Delanney rang the bell to be admitted inside, and there was no one who was able to pose the one question any sensible reader would very much like to ask her: 

What did you mean by what you told the commodore on the pier?

Not, that this question would be likely to be dignified with an answer. A most realistic estimation on Susannahs reaction would be a frown, followed by a polite declination. A smile, a helpless shrug, these were the responses one should expect asking Susannah. Not very forthcoming the young lady was, some said, but Elizabeth Swann, who, after the visitor had been admitted to the house, greeted her with her usual overflowing friendliness, knew quite better.

The two women had known each other for quite some time, actually, right from the very first year Elizabeth had spent in Port Royal, and though their relationship was nowhere near friendship, they shared a common friendliness and easiness around each other, that allowed both of them to say, they knew each other well.

Had one asked the governor's daughter to describe in a few words – no, in fact in one word - the nature of Susannah Delanney, it would have been „observant". She had a way of not taking part in a scenery, of standing just a little aside, without refusing to participate. Her biggest strength lay in her ability to see and listen.

„Did your mother not want to come?" Elizabeth asked openly, while Susannah was putting down the basket she had been carrying, taking out a sheet of paper and a pen.

„She sends her respect", Susannah answered quietly, unraveling more items from her pack, sending over a long glance to Elizabeth, before continuing. „She has not fully recovered from the attack on Port Royal, I regret. She fears the long way up the hill."

Elizabeth nodded sympathetically. Susannah and her elderly mother lived very close to the seashore, behind the port, where the civilized activity turned to a decorum of stones and white sand. The coast houses had been hit hard by the attack of the Black Pearl, and Maria Delanney had only barely survived.

„But she has instructed me", Susannah continued, straightening to look at the govenor's daughter. „There will be no difficulties."

Most observers of the scene would have taken Elizabeth for the elder of the two, standing taller and more confident, while Susannah was smaller, dark eyes and black curls carefully bound back adding to a picture of detached frailty. Coming closer though, one would notice the small spots on her nose and cheek, pale freckles seemingly, that took off quite a lot of her serenity, that, just like in her nature, only seemed to be there unless one took a closer look. And so it was, that the two women were almost of the same age, Susannah being a few months in advance only.

Another thing that would have been plain to see watching the two women in the sunlit room, would be a true impression however. When it came to social standing, it was indeed Elizabeth who was worlds in advance to Susannah. The latter's dress was well tailored as well, showed skill and quality, but it lacked the extravagance of the dresses of nobility. Susannah was not wearing any jewellery, but her hands, despite the heat, were hidden in tender, white gloves.

„I am glad, that you could come so quickly", Elizabeth sighed, stretching out her arms as Susannah neared her, a cord in her hand to be able to measure the length of the arms. „The whole thing has really been quite overwhelming."

Susannah took a note and smiled over to her, her eyes narrowing, the gesture strangely unguarded.

„And now you are anxious", she constated and Elizabeth nodded with another sigh.

„Wouldn't you? I mean, this whole story has really been all the rage. We have been raced through the seas, goodness, what an adventure it was! And.. hadn't it been for the commodore's generosity and Will's courage in the end, you would be sewing a dress for quite a different wedding now."

„Apparently", Susannah agreed. „But you did like the adventure, didn't you?"

„I know, I am very much not supposed to", was the reply she got, and telling from the unspecified nod she either agreed or was not surprised. „But if I am supposed to be honest... there were times, when I enjoyed it. It was... freedom, of sorts. And so is Will." A fond smile entered her lips, and Susannah nodded.

„In contrary to the Commodore."

A sad shrug seemed to tell all the tale.

„Don't rub it in my face, please. It is not as if..." She took two steps, curious, when Susannah came back, seemingly unmoved by the scenery, with the cord to take the next measures. „I mean, I cannot help it. I won't attach myself to someone I..."

The seamstress stopped and looked up to her, as if her gaze alone would be able to coax the words out of Elizabeth. It worked. „... I don't love."

„I did not expect otherwise", Susannah agreed. „I had been wondering why you agreed in the first place."

Elizabeth shrugged. But the story of the Curse of the Black Pearl was a good tale to tell. And Susannah, eyes alert, had always been a good listener.

Both of them enjoyed moments of easiness, as if they knew, what were to come.

* * *

It may sound very weird concerning the circumstances, that Susannah Delanney left the Swann mansion feeling completely and utterly at peace with herself and the world. 

She had arrived at the mansion, her head swirling in a dull ache that had become a constant companion of hers for quite some time, but the company and the fresher air farther away from the watershore had quenched the pain and she breathed more freely, as she at least departed.

She did not spare a thought on the way she had taken this morning. She would have remembered, had she tried, that she took the way through the port – she liked the bustling activity there – and then uphill, George Road, which lead past the Brown Forge, up again, and then to the left, into the small street that led nowhere else but to the governor.

She would have remembered being tired in the morning, the whole way disappearing behind this uncomfortable haze, and maybe, thinking very hard, she would have remembered tripping just before she left the port for the higher parts of the city.

But even if she had, she would not have cared much. She had known these states of headaches for almost as long as she could remember, they came and vanished like the tide. Susannah, being more of a practical nature, had long since decided not to give them any more attention than they deserved.

A face in the crowd can long go unnoticed. And thus, even if the incident at the port did attract some attention, most attached it to the well-known person of the Commodore, not so much counting Susannah Delanney, daughter of the Port Royal seamstress.

Nobody was there to remind her of what had happend.

And as the Dauntless, finally setting sail, slowly glided out of the harbor, memories of the whole incident, hazy as they had been, completely, utterly and unstoppably slipped from Susannah's mind.


	4. Careless Whisper

A/N: Setting up the board for the game to begin... meet some of the protagonists of the upcoming drama

Greetings

Spirit

* * *

**Chapter 3:**

**Careless whisper**

When the ship glided out of the mist, there was almost no sound at all, just as if the fog and the hanging clouds had quenched all noise that could have been heared. The sea was lying flat and clear,its bright blue betraying the white sands that lay underneath the silent waters.

The ship seemed to move on its own accord, drawn by an unseen current in the calm seas, the two masts reaching up to the clouds not unlike two fingers, accusing or even demanding – whichever the spirit of a potential spectator would have supplied first – not that there was any spectator, to be precise. The „Mary of the Seas" took up its journey unnoticed, in the silence her movement already promised.

She left behind the twin islands she had come from, presumably having anchored in one of the hidden bays in the mist, before whatever errand sent her onto the seas had called her out.

The islands fell back, and when the ship slowed, seemingly leaving the strange current that had drawn it out here, the sails were set, falling down like white waterfalls, catching the wind. Movement was seen aboard, activity, sailors working to get the vessel into motion.

The sails swelled immediately, as if the wind only had waited for the ship to appear, and the ship took on velocity again, now bound for the open sea.

High up on the main mast, there was a flag, the St. George Cross, flaying proudly in the newfound wind.

* * *

Captain Theodore Almington was a believing man. 

Despite being a man of the seas, who had sailed far and wide across the oceans of the world, despite having spent his time among the sailors, whose superstition was known to be unsurpassed, his faith in the Lord God the Almighty had never waned. It had carried him through many storms and high tides, and he lived in the certainty, that there would never be a situation, where his Maker would desert him.

Two days ago, life had given him another proof of this firm conviction of his, and as he now stood aboard his ship, surveying the activity on deck standing on the bridge, hands clasped behind his back, he felt completely at peace with himself.

Only three days ago, things had seemed quite different. Whether it was due to a navigational error of his – which might have occurred because of the consistently cloudy sky that barred the stars from his view and therefore left him bereft of this possibility of orientation – whether it was due to the storm they had gotten themselves into last week – salty water washing mercilessly over the deck as the elements toyed the mighty ship as if it were only a nutshell – they had thorougly lost their way.

When the storm had subsided and he had surveyed the damage, he found, that The Lord God was putting him through quite a trying test. The supplies of fresh water had mostly vanished through a leakage in the starboard wall of the ship, which, barely above the ocean surface, had also allowed quite a lot of sea water to enter the ship. With the help of all hands aboard, they had managed to close the leakage, but the water of course had already been there, and there was nothign they could do to mend the apparent lack of drinking water.

Theodore Almington had never hoped for rain as much as he had during these terrible days, however, the sky, although quite cloudy throughout all the time, had refused to comply, and it seemed, as if all his prayers went unheared.

On the first day, there had been jokes. Jokes about sailors not needing any water, at any case as long as there was enough rum to go by.

Unfortunately, there was hardly any rum. And even less water.

On the second day, the crew had understood, what their captain already knew – that they were deeply and thoroughly in trouble. There were prayers, hopes, shouts and even a brawl, that Almington resolved with the help of his first mate – but even this small success had failed in lightening the situation.

On the third day, there had been panic. The supplies had, despite the captain trying to rationalize them, dried out, and the idea of dying of thirst in the middle of the ocean was appealing to no one. But still, the skies remained merciless and no rain fell.

On the fourth day, the end seemed near. Even Almington, as much as he tried to keep up his confidence, began to suffer from the first effects of the lack of water. The sun burned down mercilessly and the world disappeared behind a veil of fever and delusion, and for the first time in his life, he considered the possibility, that there had never been a god to begin with.

And thus, he had at first thought of seeing a mirage when he saw the islands appear, somewhere south of their route, twin islands, quite similar one to the other, fairly large and covered in green jungle. Even in his dazed state, he could make out what this meant.

Jungle meant water. Fresh water.

And thus it was, that the crew of the „Mary of the seas" had been saved, by the miracle of God alone. They had lain anchor to the western island, finding it a paradise, and full of water, water, sweet precious water.

They stayed for two days, unbelieving of their luck to be thus rescued in the very last minute, and though there still were no stars and there still were clouds, Almington had begun to feel the old certainty again, that Gods will would happen, and that all of them would be led safely home.

Finally, they set sail again, and just this is the moment, where we see the ship emerging between the twin islands, which, as if to conceal them from the clearer view of any observer, drew the cloaks of mist around themselves not unlike a garment. The „Mary of the seas" had supplies for water, enough water, to be sure to be able to reach their destination.

He heared the soft footfalls, as another person came up to stand beside him on the bridge, not imposing, but still demanding his attention. He turned and felt a smile light his features at the sight of the intruder.

Crystabella Halvery looked quite a sight. She stood upright, her face tilted towards the skies, as if the toils of the last days had dripped of her as water would on an oil drenched skin. She was already in her late fourties, but did not look it. She was slender to the point of being skinny, but it was becoming her quite well. Her face showed some, few wrinkles, around the dark eyes shadowed by long eyelashes, and around the full mouth, but otherwise her skin was flawless, the lines of her face sharp but not unpleasantly so. She was tall, adorned in a red dress, the skirt billowing in the wind.

Almington bowed to her reverently.

„Mistress Halvery", he acknowledged, and she nodded, smiling.

„It is good to be on our way again", she mused and looked out onto the seemingly endless sea.

„Aye", Almington agreed. One of the most uncomfortable thoughts about the whole mess, which occured, was, that he had put Mistress Halvery and her daughter, guests on his ship on their voyage to Port Royal, through the same toil and misery that they all had suffered.

As far, as he could remember – and memories of these dangerous days were hazy and untrustworthy – both of them had held up themselves admirably. In fact, he could not remember either of them complaining only once about their current situation of embarrassing themselves by giving in to discomfort, or even despair.

But then, he could not imagine the formidable Mistress Halvary to give in to despair, and since she kept close check on her daughter Leonora, he doubted that the young lady would have had a chance at loss of restraint.

„And again", Almington picked up the long-lost thread of conversation, „I have to apologize for the danger and discomfort I have put you through. It is entirely of my own responsibility, that this ship failed to maintain its original course.

„You worry too much", she declined, waving off his apology with a ringed hand. „This is the ocean, not some lake or some road on the english countryside." She had a faint hint of spanish in her voice, an unfamiliar tone in the otherwise flawless english she spoke. It seemed to get along well with the seemingly spanish names of her and her daughter as well, but as for now, Almington had not yet found quite the courage to ask her for her story. „I can stand a little discomfort for the sake of this voyage. And I am sure, that the rest of the trip will be a mere stroll, compared what we all have been true. I have the fullest trust in your capabilities, Captain."

He felt himself beaming at the compliment and hid his pleasure behind a polite nod.

„I feel inspired by your trust, Madam."

She laughed, softly, a sound like cascading bells, and when he lifted his head again, her eyes were dancing in pleasure.

„As soon as the sky clears up, you will be able to find your way, won't you?" He nodded, and she smiled, lifting a tender hand to point at something that was located right behind himself. „Take a look, captain. A breach in the clouds. With any chance, we will be seeing a clear, starlit night."

He turned around and found her observation to be true.

„God be thanked", he called out. And in fact, it seemed that the tides had turned, and fortune as well as the favor of god smiled back again onto the „Mary of the seas".

* * *

Who would have thought. A conversation as harmless as the one above, to be giving Jack Sparrow the worst day he had had in quite some time. And considering recent events, this meant a lot. 


	5. Caught in the act

A/N: Goodness gracious! That man is elusive! I would not have thought, but there are few things around, that are as tough as writing Captain Jack Sparrow. Can I go back to Norrington and Susannah, please? ;-)

Anyways, he is vital to the plot, and so I have been toiling to give you an idea on what he is doing, in these very eventful days right after the Isla de la Muerta incident.

Because he is having quality time – believe me.

* * *

**Chapter 4: **

**Caught in the act**

The mood on the Black Pearl was extraordinarily cheery. It had been quite some time that life had felt so good. They had set sail two days ago, leaving Port Royal after the escape of Jack Sparrow from the royal hospitality and had been on the open seas ever since. Gibbs and Anamaria had seen to it that the stores were full, and that the Pearl was fit for a long time on the sea. None of them were naive enough to believe, that Jack's escape would go unvenged by the Royal Navy.

However, they had seen the second day without so much as a glimpse of any british ships on their tale, and Jack Sparrow was beginning to believe that the infalluable – and unbearable – Commodore had lost their track.

Good news, as far as it seemed for now, and time for a resumee of the last days' events, time for rejoicing in what he had.

Point the first. The Pearl was back in his hands. Best news of all.

Point the second. He had a crew. They might be not much to look at, but Jack Sparrow was beyound that. They had held up quite fine in that delicious mess of the Isla de la Muerta thing, and had even come back for him in Port Royal. It remained yet to be told how they had sneaked into the best-guarded port of the Carribbean, to steal the Commodore's prize prisoner right under his very eyes – but the fact that they had done so was a good start anyway.

Point the third – ah what the heck!

He took a deep swig from his bottle, tossing thoughts aside. He had been moderately sober throughout the day, the evening however, had already seen him foxed.

„Gentlemen", he adressed his crew, then, thinking better of it, he uncertainly turned towards Anamaria, raising his bottle especially towards her. „... and women..." he slurred, smiling favourably into her cold demeanor, that had graduately diminished, but nonetheless never vanished. „It is so nice to be back. I..."

He shook his head in annoyance, waving off whatever it was that he had wanted to say and tipped his bottle towards them. „Cheers, anyways..."

This was gladly taken, the cheers resounding around him, as bottles were passed round. The evening was especially mild, the wind had died down at dusk, leaving the carribbean waters to be flat as a table, hardly a wave rippling the surface. Yes, Jack Sparrow decided, in this very moment, life was extremely good.

It might have been minutes or hours later. He had somewhat lost track of time, and lost track of any reason why he should care. Propped up against the rail of the Pearl he surveyed the celebrating men, taking the occasional swig from the now near-empty bottle and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Anamaria was agitately talking to Maroo Doiat, and a grin stole itself on Jack's face. Fiery, that one. Much trouble, to be sure, but another challenge. And, since Norrington had not dignified them with an appearance, Jack felt a little out of challenges. Unfortunately, she was too good a sailor to be missed, and after him being successfull, it was out of question for her to stay aboard the Pearl. He grinned.

So what the hell.

He left his surveying post aside from the crew and uncertainly swayed towards her. She realized his movement almost immediately and turned up her head to watch him, a lopsided grin on her lips that did not reach her eyes.

„So, Captain", she began, putting an emphasis on the word 'captain' he was not sure he liked. „Where are we going to go now?"

He sat close to her, pursing his lips and leaning towards her as he thought of an appropriate answer. She was watching him being unable to sit still, his upper body swaying slightly as he groped for words.

„We are going..." he took up, raising an index finger of his left, while the rest of his hand was still firmly wrapped around the near-empty bottle. „... t' the horizon." He grinned cleverly. „A pirate's life fer me."

„Aha", she replied, raising a suspicios eyebrow. Her eyes betrayed, that she, too, was nowhere near sober, but she had yet to drink as much as the captain obviously already had. „Meaning, you don't know yet."

„I do know", Jack protested, leaning back comfortably and confidently. The smile on his face betrayed every bit of it. „You guess."

Anamaria snorted. „Nice try, Jack. Come back when sober enough to think."

„Oh, but I'm so, luv", he slurred, then, on second thought, „or maybe not. But nevermind." He waved off any comment she might have been making. „You know what, sweetie?"

He propped himself up on both hands, carelessly spilling some of the rum. „Wait'n see", he advised, his face close to hers. She retreated a bit, scowling, knowing very well what he was up to. „'S a surprise."

„You don't know", she concluded, and Jack seemed to be deeply annoyed.

„Such a trust", he growled, standing up with difficulty, emptying the last of his bottle. „'S a shame."

He looked at his bottle miserably, sighing.

„Why's the rum empty anyway", he complained, staggering away towards the ladder that went into the ship.

„Guess why", murmured Anamaria, torn between a smile and a heartily felt annoyed frown.

Jack Sparrow turned towards the ladder leading down to the storage rooms of the ship, where rum could be found, but quickly thought better of it. After the first ladder, there would be a second, then a door, that had to be opened with a key – all in all far too much trouble. He dimly remembered having left a half-emptied bottle in his own cabin, located in the back of the deck. The short walk looked much more inviting than the steep steps of the ladder, and he followed this impulse, vanishing into the dark.

Apparently a lamp had been left burning in his cabin. He must have forgotten to extinguish it, but given the fact, that he right now had forgotten to take a lamp with him, all of this could be counted as quite a fortunate coincidence adding up to the splendidness of the day. He entered the cabin, looking around to see his bottle waiting for him in the middle of the table, amidst the old seachart he at times used for navigation, and he hurried for it, taking another brave swig just for the fun of it.

Jack turned around to leave again, letting his gaze wander lazily over the few belongings he had managed to collect – and keep – during the last time. There was a small object standing on one of the sideboards ladden with the items of the various owners of the black pearl, a figurine composed of three triangles siding each other, standing on the fourth triangle. The skelleton of the object was done in metal, once polished, that had now, due to sea and salty air, taken on a battered appearance.

The faces between the metal skelleton were filled with dim glass, that had taken on a murky shade of green that seemed tainted with age in the light of the lantern.

Something about the object caught Jack Sparrow's eye. He lifted his lamp to see better, finally gingerly held out his hand to touch it, tentatively, as if he were holding a snake, a scorpion or something equally nasty.

He had hoped to be wrong but he wasn't. There was a rip in one of the side faces of the glass, reaching from the upmost tip of the triangle down to the bottom. It seemed to have traveled through the whole glass, and when he tipped the object to look at its base, he could see that the rip continued there, disregarding the fact, that the two faces were most probably composed of different pieces of glass and were not connected.

This sight, much better than any bucket of cold water could have done, sobered him up immediately. Letting out an undefined sound somewhere between an expression of disgust and a scream, he hastily put the object back and retreated a few steps, cleaning his hand on his pants as if to wash away a taint.

As if a wind had come and blown away all the good mood that had filled him earlier.

It took quite some time until the crew noticed, the captain was missing. And then, despite having undertaken quite a quest for their captain in recent times, it took some more time before someone felt up to the necessitiy of taking a look where Jack Sparrow had gone. It fell to the first mate Gibbs to finally have a look.

He found the captain sitting at his table, wearing a sullen expression and brooding over a weird item of metall and glass, that he had put before himself. The bottle of rum at his side was again nearing its end.

„Something wrong?" he asked. Even though Jack was known far and wide to be a moody man, the look on his face did not inspire much confidence.

The Captain took some time to answer. His eyes were unfocused, and he was beginning to wonder, if he should repeat his question, when Jack finally nodded.

„Yes..." he mused. „Even though... no."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes.

„What?"

Jack stood up, gripped the side of the table to stop from swaying, then grabbed the small item and turned around.

„Nothin', nothin'", he replied, walking past Gibbs, who turned around as well.

„Jack, for hell's sake, what..."

„Nothin'", Sparrow now murmured, as he left the cabin, swaying towards the heck of the Pearl, the item in the one hand, the bottle of rum in the other. Gibbs had trouble keeping up, once more wondering, how Jack could be so completely drunk and yet quite quick. Sea legs, he decided, and arrived just in time to sea Jack toss the strange object into the sea with infinite determination.

„Well." The captain said with aplomb. „That's the end to that." He sounded quite satisfied and lifted his head to look out to the horizon.

And froze in his place. Gibbs could have sworn he saw him pale, but he was sure, that the drunken glitter vanished from Sparrows eyes from one instant to the other.

„Not good", the pirate murmured, and when Gibbs turned around to see what Sparrow had discovered, he felt inclined to agree.

Still far behind, but too close for anyone's taste, came the graceful, yet deadly sight of a fully flagged, fully armed Dauntless unter the command of a certain Commodore Norrington.


	6. A show of good favor

A/N: Meet Crystabella Haverly. Isn't she… formidable, as they say. Isn't she?

darklight03: hey, somebody reviewed :D. Anyway, you are not supposed to know, where I'm going, yet. But I know, that's a comforting thought, isn't it? At least I know how to get them all knee-deep into trouble. Now out of that mess… that's a different thing ;-)

**

* * *

Chapter 5 **

A show of good favor

The „Mary of the seas" was watched by quite many eyes as she arrived in Port Royal, a full week after departing from the misty twin islands that had been their unexpected, yet surely welcomed salvation. She arrived in the sunny hours of late morning, where the fresh air of the first hours of the day had already been dispelled by the heat to come, but the air did not yet carry the laden heaviness it would take on in the afternoon.

Port Royal, as it had always been, was bustling with activity, and so, many heads turned when the ship graciously sailed towards the docks.

Susannah Delanney sat on a bench at the wall of her mother's house. It was located directly at the seashore, and even though there was no beach but only a collection of rocks surrounded by water, she had a lovely view over the port. In fact, since the tailor's house was not much to look at, this view was the one reason why she loved the house. It might well have been the only reason why her father – god rest him – had bought it in the first place.

Susannah was not idle, though. It would not have suited her to be, but she had brought out one of the tables of the house to stand before her, and it was laden with cloth, as she made the first stitches on what was supposed to be the dress for the engagement celebration of the lovely Miss Swann.

She saw the ship out of the corner of an eye, and even though her ever observant gaze rested upon it for some time, she did not think much of it. She was, in fact, more concerned because of the dull ache that formed between her eyes yet again, another touch of headache that seemingly was on its way.

Maybe it was the sun, she decided. And yet, she could not bring herself to turn inside.

Another pair of eyes was watching the "Mary of the seas" arriving from the high perches of the fort, propped up on the strong walls, with a sentiment of wonder. Lieutenant Gilette, staying behind at Port Royal after the departure of the commodore, to watch over the town, was quite curious about the new arrival. The "Mary of the seas" was quite well known to him, Captain Almington being a valiant man that often hit carribbean shores. However, the arrival of her in Port Royal was strange news, considering that last thing he had heard about Almington was, that, on the payroll of the East India Trading Company, he had taken the route between Singapore shores and Madagascar frequently in the last months, instead of sailing the waters around Port Royal.

High up at the governors residence on the first slope of the hill, Will Turner, who had, after completing this morning's work and before burying himself in the afternoon chores, dropped by the residence to pay respect to his fiancée. So they stood upon the terrace, watching over the port, idly chatting in a easiness, that had not yet lost its magic upon them. Still, the world was new and fresh to their eyes.

And so they did not pay much attention to the foreign ship, which would, in due time, claim the attention by itself, even though both of them would be quite hesitant to comply.

In fact, it did take only a few hours.

While the arrival of the ship went mostly as an event unmarked as unusual, people on the docks did not go so far as to neglect their duties in receiving the vessel. As the "Mary of the seas" lay anchor in the outer rims of the port, small boats were launched to receive cargo and passengers, while the master of the harbour dutifully noted the date, time and manners of the arrival.

There was not much cargo the "Mary of the seas" brought to Port Royal except for what their passengers brought with them, and this was not to be neglected.

Captain Almington took it upon himself to accompany the guest of his long voyage across the ocean to Port Royal, and as he sat in a boat together with the seemingly completely unruffled Crystabella Halvery and her pale, black-haired, dark-eyed daughter Leonora, he fell to regret that their voyage aboard his ship had been such a short one. He would dearly miss the company of the noblewoman, who had, quite ignoring the propriety of her actions, often joined him on deck for some chatter or other, who had, especially in the seven days since their unforeseen halt on the unchartered islands in the mist, asked him a lot about his ship and his voyages, listening attentively and throwing in the occasional, astonishingly cunning remark.

She had an air around her, that inspired confidence.

As for Leonora, whom he had hardly ever seen, since she stayed under deck most of the voyage – her mother truly seemed to have sea legs that her daughter had not inherited, the poor thing felt sigh for the better part of three weeks – he was not quite sure of what to make of her. As alike as mother and daughter were in looks, as different they seemed in personality, Leonora being withdrawn and silent where her mother was flamboyant.

* * *

All Governor Swann could do, was not to race down towards the waterfront when he heard of the arrival. He had never liked to be caught unprepared, and this special occasion was very unfortunate indeed.

Even as he prepared himself for the reception of the unexpected guests, adjusting his coat and wig, shouting orders to the servants to prepare a small meal and drinks for the arrivals, he tried to memorize what he knew of those that went by the name of Halvery.

It was not much, alas.

Lord Halvery's ascention in his majesties court had occurred quite some time after he had come to Port Royal, meaning, that, as far as Swann was concerned, the two men had never met – or at least Halvery had not left a lasting impression upon him.

He seemed to be a diplomat mostly, a professional in dealing with people of all different kinds, but there was also the occasional nasty mention of his taking advantage of the trust being put into him in various dealings. At any case, Halvery was said to be rich.

Which circumstances had let him to archive the title of a Lord, Swann had not heard in this far-off outpost of British civilization, but he had heard of his involvement with the East India Trading company.

One thing, scandalous enough to be remarked even here, in the Carribbean, was his marriage to Crystabella Dorinth, former wife of Lord Dorinth. Halvery had been a known and convinced bachelor before, and it seemed to be quite strange for him to change his opinion in his late years, especially if he were to marry someone of as diffuse a reputation as Crystabella was.

She was born into Spanish nobility, married off to Lord Dorinth during one of the brief periods, in which it seemed opportune to the Empire to – at least on the surface – befriend Spain, a time, which, of course, did not last.

Crystabella therefore was, if not shunned from society, treated with caution, and the same, apparently, counted for her daughter Leonora, of whom he had only heared a very few number of times.

The early – in fact, untimely – death of Lord Dorinth had not helped matters, and since there had been no male offspring of their union, the title fell to Dorinth's brother, leaving Crystabella in quite a precarious state.

She took it with good grace, apparently, until finally, four years ago, she married Halvery.

Without whom she now appeared, without any reason for it, on the other side of the world.

* * *

The Turner boy had left, and father and daughter did their best to receive Crystabella and Leonora Halvery, who had been brought to the governor's mansion at Swann's request. Standing on the steps of the residence, after having told Elizabeth, what little he knew of their surprising visitor, he could not help admiring the scenery of the two ladies advancing towards them.

Both of them were pale, and gifted with the black curls and dark eyes that are often claimed to be typical for the region of their origin, both of them were beautiful, slender and exquisitely dressed. Their demeanor, however, was quite different. Lady Halvery walked with confidence, with a graceful stride that spoke of an unbroken pride, while her daughter did not exactly trail behind, but gave an impression of being withdrawn, which made him wonder. This, however, was not the time to ponder the differences of the Halvery women.

"Lady Halvery", he greeted her formally, bowing and bestowing a chaste kiss onto the back of her hand. "And Miss Halvery", he acknowledged Leonora's presence, who did not return the favour. Apparently, her mother did not seem to notice. "This is a most unexpected pleasure."

"I am sorry we did not notify you of our arrival", Lady Halvery replied. Her voice was deep and rich, a smile on the face that barely showed her age gave additional life to her eyes. If not in fate, then at least in looks, life had been very kind to her. "I would have done so, had there been the opportunity. I regret, however, to say, that our departure was a little rushed."

"Do not think of it", Swann replied courteously, taking the time to introduce his daughter Elizabeth. Crystabella gave her an open smile, Leonora a fleeting glance that filled her heart with pity. Apparently, the girl did not take sea travels as easily as her mother.

The Swanns escorted their visitors back into the building, idle chatter filling the space between them quite nicely. The Governor had prepared an impromptu reception and soon, all of them where sitting in the shadow of a palm tree on the terrace of the governor's mansion.

"I trust you had a pleasant journey", he asked, out of politeness, but not only so.

"Oh, for the most part, it was quite agreeable", she replied, her tone lofty. "We ran into a bit of hard weather at some point and – if I have understood the captain correctly...", she gave the tiniest and most charming little shrug, "got.. blown away, as they say. We ran a bit short of water, but luckily, we came across an island, where we picked up supplies."

"How very unpleasant, by the sound of it", the Governor sympathized, while Elizabeth looked at the older woman in wonderment. She seemed completely untouched of what had happened. Elizabeth knew, that sea storms could be rough. It was hard to believe, that everything had gone as smoothly, as she described.

"Oh, it was nothing really." Crystabella shook of the incident with a slight wave of her hand. "A bit of adventure is to be expected undertaking a trip such as this, and it is not, as if we had been in any grave danger."

At this, for the tiniest of moments, Leonora tipped her head to look up, and Elizabeth caught a gaze of hers she did not know how to place. There was… anger? Fury? Disagreement?

Apparently there was more to the "little storm" than Crystabella would like to admit.

Elizabeth frowned for an instant, but decided to think about it later.

"I admire your composure", Swann complimented with a smile towards Lady Halvery.

"If I may be so bold – how long are you planning on staying?"

"You may, of course you may. This is your port, isn't it?" She leaned back in her chair. "As a matter of fact, I do not know yet. This is not for me alone to decide. It might well be, that I will be settling here for some time."

"Meaning… you are planning on becoming a citizen of Port Royal?"

She laughed, a deep, rich cascade.

"Might be, Lord Governor, might be not. As I said, this is not entirely a decision of mine alone."

"Rest assured, that you are welcome as long as you like to stay."

"And I, Lord Governor, cannot thank you enough for that."

The chatter continued idly for some more time, and Elizabeth began to marvel at Lady Halvery's ability to gracefully dodge any question directed at her reason for being here. But then, finally, her father offered to bring the ladies to the rooms he had prepared for them, to give them the opportunity to rest for a while.

Elizabeth, seizing the opportunity, fled to the forge.

* * *

"Weird is quite an expression, Elizabeth", Will Turner mused, sitting on a wooden stool next to Elizabeth, who had taken a place on the steps leading into the forge.

"Well, I do not know how else to say it. There is something… weird about her." She waved her hand, annoyed by her inability to express what had been taken her as strange during her encounter with the Haverys. "She is quite an extraordinary woman, from what my father told me, and she lives up to it."

"So are you, Elizabeth." He had a way of saying her name that could tear her out of any thought she was having at the moment. Still new to this, new to the ease with which they were able to meet now, she looked over to him, meeting his fond smile, for an instant at loss for words.

Her temper found them again soon enough.

"That's different", she retorted. "I mean, I do not even know why she came here. My father asked, several times actually, but she never answered."

"I may be new to these circles of society, but… maybe it is a matter she does not wish to discuss with your father. She is quite allowed to have her secrets, and only because she is well-known enough to gain your hospitality it does not mean she is all yours, does it?"

"Now, that's a calming thought", Elizabeth bit back. "And, at any case, this daughter of hers. She didn't say a single word, can you imagine? Just sitting still, looking down, my goodness, what a family is this?"

"Not everybody has your spirit", Will replied calmly, catching her hand in his, bestowing a small kiss upon it. "Maybe she was tired. Not everybody takes a trip on the sea like a stroll on the waterfront."

Her restlessness had diminished – no, in better words – evaporated at his gesture. It was quite unsettling, the influence he had on her, but she had not the strength, nor the will to fight it. He caught her – with his gaze alone, with much more ease than it would have been possible by means of any gesture – and she felt a smile creeping upon her face.

Truly, her fiancée was a magnificent man….

* * *

"I regret to have been this elusive concerning my reasons for being here, Governor." While Elizabeth was raging of her discomfort of the new house guest of the Swanns to Will, the object of her displeasure had stopped in her stroll from her daughter's room to her own, causing Governor Swann to do the same. "I had my reasons, to be sure." She turned to face him fully, capturing his questioning gaze with her dark eyes. "I fear to be the bearer of ill news, and I hope you will forgive me for being so forward. But the main reason for my elusiveness is, that I wished to speak to you alone without the presence of your daughter."

"You can be assured, that my daughter is entirely trustworthy." Swann did not manage to keep either annoyance or wonderment out of his voice.

"Which I do not doubt in the least", Lady Haverly tried to make amends. "But I fear what I am telling you is for your ears and yours alone." She took a deep breath, as if to plunge.

"I have come", she said, softly, "to tell you, that your daughter is in danger. In very grave danger indeed."

Swann put a hand against the wall, to steady himself.


	7. The games we play

A/N: There we are again – after a week-end away from the writing board as usual. It may or might not calm you that I have actually done a story-outline for this, and we are going to be here for quite some time I hate to say. Anyway, it's taking form. So if you like it, drop me a line, if you don't (or if you discover any more of my mistakes concerning the english language ;) ) drop me a line too :-). Anyway, this chapter sees a bit of action (which is always tough to write for me), go ahead and watch two seamen chase each other across the ocean

nodaaaa: thanks for the notice – I am, as you may have guessed, not a native english speaker, and I hope there are not too many errors around. I am working on improving myself, though.

Greetings

Spirit

**Chapter 6:**

**The games we play**

„They have seen us."

Commodore Norrington lowered the spy-glass and narrowed his eyes. They sped through the night, all sails set, towards the lingering shadow in the darkness that was the _Black Pearl_. Norrington's voice was cold, icy determination vibrating in every single one of his words. The moment of weakness that had made him give Sparrow a head start, was gone and all that remained was the firm conviction, that today the topic of Captain Jack Sparrow would be terminated, once and for all. He was not sure whether to be angry at his earlier weakness but had tentatively decided against it. He had been in an extraordinary state of mind, after all, and a certain fondness for Miss Swann might have added to his final decision. An error, an understandable error but yet a failing, and he was not inclined to have it happen again.

„Are you sure?" Lieutenant Groves cast a doubting glance between his Commodore and the pirate they were pursuing. Norrington handed the spyglass over to him without so much as a word of explanation, without letting the fleeting ship out of his gaze, and indeed, as the Lieutenant lifted the miracle of glass and lenses to his eyes, he could see bustling activity on the deck of the _Black Pearl_. Stations were manned, and half of the Crew seemed to be high up in the masts to set the sails that had been shortened for the night.

_So easy_, Norrington thought, by way of passing, while he watched the _Dauntless_ come closer. _So careless..._

He gripped the rails with both hands, thus relieving the tension that could not find another way. His whole mind, his whole being indeed had focused on finishing Captain – indeed, _Captain_ – Jack Sparrow.

He had shown the same fierceness in pursuing everyone of the more nasty pirates that sailed the caribbean seas, however, he admitted, that this time there was a personal matter adding up to it. The appearance of Jack Sparrow and his infamous involvement with the _Black Pearl_ was, what had started what had become a thunderstorm of events, whose only apparent loser was he, James Norrington, and therefore, Sparrow was to blame.

Would he have listened to what his subconcious timidly supplied, and what he had admitted to himself in one of his weaker moments, he would have had to say, that the only thing he lost during the _Black Pearl_ incident, was something that had never been really his to start with, and since this was not one of the weaker moments, he was by no means willing to mingle his personal life into the matter. After all, it had not proven to be a good advisor. The only time, the very only time he had let his heart run away with his mind – he could still hear her voice, if he tried, and sometimes even if he didn't... for me, as a wedding gift – things had not ended quite that well.

And so, finally and inevitably, he would send the black ship back where it belonged.

Down into the deep.

„Turn to 10''12 and open gunports", Norrington commanded, while still taking his way to the bridge.

Jack Sparrow, as far as he was concerned, would not live to see another morning.

Jack Sparrow was gifted with a strange, unusual and, with regard to the current situation, extremely useful ability. Being completely drunk one instant, he could turn – relatively – sober in the next, given the need and the opportunity. Both of which was – undeniably, the case this very instant.

He hurried across the deck, screaming at his crewmates to speed up in setting the sails, in bringing the _Pearl_ back to life and speed. He was well aware, that the _Black Pearl_ was the fastest ship of the Carribean, unfortunately, he was aware as well, that the _Dauntless_ had already taken up speed, was racing at full capacity, while they had been drifting comfortably and carelessly. Even a ship like his could not speed up in just a few instances.

They had begun to take up velocity, when the first salve came. One of the bullets hit the deck just some feet away from the tip of Jack's toes, and he jumped back with a cry. Most of the iron missiles went astray, but still, Norrington's aim was far to precise for Jack's taste. He hurried up to the bridge to survey the situation while his ship lurched forward, the wind finally catching in the sails, he feared it might have been too late. The _Dauntless_, sturdy as it were, had turned to a course that would eventually – if the Pearl did not manage to outrace her, lead her side by side with Jack's ship. And far too many of the gunports did already put him in the direct line of fire.

„Open gunports", he yelled, unknowingly copying the order Norrington had given some time ago on the other ship. „Load starboard guns, giv'em a treat they'll never forget."

„Second salve, Lieutenant."

Norringtons frosty tone was worlds away from the hectic activity on the _Black Pearl_. The Commodore had not moved since reachign the bridge, occasionally watching the activity on the opposing ship by means of his spying glass. „Aim for the masts."

The order was passed down to the gunmen and Norrington straightened himself. They were close enough now to see, that the Black Pearl did her best at readying their own gunfire. There was almost a smile on his lips as he clasped his hands behind his back, standing firm. As far as gunpower was concerned, he did not fear the former ghost ship.

The second salve crackled through the air just about the same time as the Pearl returned fire. The _Dauntless_ was hit, the power of the impact rippling through her small body. Commodore Norrington had expected nothing else and yet he staggered backwards, steadying himself against the railing.

„Water in the bow cabin starboard!" Came an intent, yet controlled voice of one of the soldiers, and he reacted immediately.

„Three men down to patch it." It was to be doubted, that this order would even have been needed. The crew of the _Dauntless _was well trained indeed.

It was only when their quick steps had died down, when Norrington, wind still in his face, lifted his gaze to see what damage their own salve had done.

„I'll be damned", Jack Sparrow murmured in the briefest of seconds before he burst into activity once more. „Back, back, back, out of the way", he screamed and the crew went running, to all the sides, to escape the topmost part of the mast, that creaked, swayed, and finally toppled over like a man drunk, just to crash into the deck, leaving a gaping hole in the deck on the Pearl. Jack swore – heartily – and surveyed the damage. The lower sail was still hanging and seemed to catch the wind, but the top sail was definitely gone for good. The damage done by the falling mast was annoying, yet no immediate danger, but the loss of the sail was tangible. They lost speed.

So much for racing them.

It was Gibbs who regained composure first, his face plastered with splinters of wood, since he had stood quite close to the source of destruction, and who yelled for another salve to be fired.

Jack realized, this was no good. He scrambled back towards the bridge and clambered up to the steering wheel. Their salvation did not lie in firepower. Their salvation lay in speed.

It was nothing unexpected to see the pirate turn away. Commodore Norrington had expected nothing else – his hatred did not confuse his thoughts enough to have him fail to see that Captain Jack Sparrow was a resourceful man indeed. And he knew very well that this battle would be won by the man, who was able to impose his way of battle upon the other.

Robbing the _Pearl_ of one sail had been a good start. But now, it was Sparrow's part of the game.

Norrington had his men fire a last salve before heaving around the ship to start the pursuit.

It was going to be a very long night.


	8. Know where to turn

A/N: And here, I not-so-proudly announce my first blatant rip-off of DMC. You will recognize it, when you see it, however, the situation is a bit different though. And Crystabella Halvery's intentions are quite different, so to speak. Isn't it just a piece of chance she came to play the role in this little game that you see her playing?

darklight03: No Jack Sparrow today, I am sorry ;-). He's still out there, playing cat-and-mouse with Norrington. But hopefully you learn a bit more of one of the new characters and how she will add up to the story in the end...

Greetings

Spirit

**Chapter 7:**

**Know, where to turn**

The Governor looked quite pale in the light of the flickering lamps , gingerly placed himself onto the chair Crystabella Halvery pointed out to him. Anxiousness was etched in every line of his face, and, folding his hands upon the table, he leaned forward to watch the Spanish woman intently.

„Lady Halvery", he began, unable to keep an edge out of his voice. „Would you mind telling me, what this is all about?"

„Of course, Governor."

Crystabella had been shuffling through the contents of a big wooden suitcase and return, carrying a leather document case in her hands. She took a seat on the other side of the table, facing Governor Swann with a concerned look.

„As you may, or may not know, my husband... was a man of many talents."

Swann etched his brow in concern as the consequences of what Crystabella had said sank in.

„Was...?"

She sighed, lowering her head for an instance, and it seemed, that her lifely features froze for a moment.

„This is... a most unfortunate story, I fear. Part of the reason why – if you forgive my honesty – I left England for these foreign shores."

„My condolences for your loss, my lady", Swann said, sounding every bit as confused as he was. He found it difficult to follow the strange turn of conversation, from the danger Elizabeth found herself in if Lady Halvery's words were true, to this strange piece of personal truth that had been new to him. „Of course... you are welcome here as long as you... want to."

„Thank you for your kind words", Crystabella answered haltingly, pressing her palms together as if to steady herself. „However, I think this is... a topic for another day." Swann wondered briefly at the fact, that she seemed to have harbored true feelings about her late husband. He would not have thought Crystabella Halvery's story to be one to carry such sentimentalities. A point in her favor, as far as he was concerned.

„At any case, he was... planning... to travel to the Caribbean himself", the widow continued, turning around the leather packed in her hands. „He did not have the time to set out, however, his plans were very concrete, so to speak. When I was sorting out his things, I came across this."

She opened the packet to reveal a document, that had been sheltered inside from the sea air and the salty water, handing it over to the Governor.

Swann took one look at the paper and froze.

He might have blacked out, for minutes, for seconds, but them, coming finally to himself, he lifted his head to look at Crystabella Halvery.

„This is insane."

„So I thought", she answered softly. „Imagine my surprise."

„But... why? This is completely ridiculous." He threw the document back on the table. „Why on earth would anybody sentence my daughter of treason? Of all the things? Treason? An outrage!"

„I know." Crystabella sighed sadly. „You see me as surprised as you are."

Swann felt his thoughts racing. The only thing that could even remotely relate his daughter to anything of true harm to the empire was the escape of Captain Jack Sparrow, and that had been scarcely two weeks ago. Impossible for the news to travel to England and back in that time, let alone be considered important enough of a royal edict. So this outrage had to be rooted on some different injustice.

„But how can this be?"

„I don't know", Crystabella Halvery confessed, shrugging slightly. „Tell me, Governor Swann, did you anger anyone of importance in his majesty's government lately? Or did she?"

He shook his head, the curls of his wig shaking annoyingly.

„Not that I know of, not that I..." His hands trembled. „This can only be a mistake."

„A mistake?" Crystabella cockted an eyebrow. „I am very sorry, but I beg to differ. This kind of mistakes don't usually happen. This is a royal seal... a royal seal." She repeated it, just for the confirmation of it, trying to clarify the situation to the governor.

„I have to send a message back to England. This is an outrage." Swann shook his head. „We still have friends in his majesty's court. They are bound to do something!"

„A piece of advice, if I may."

Governor Swann nodded, staring blatantly at the woman facing him. There was concern burning in the depths of Crystabella's dark eyes.

„If you inquire, do so carefully. It seems to me, that there are things afoot back in London. It seems to me, that old channels have been wavering, and I am not sure, that those, that were to be trusted are so in the days to come. Be careful, Governor. The court is not what it used to be."

„When did all this happen?" he asked, intrigued and alarmed, and for an instance, Lady Halvery seemed to be at loss for words. She leaned in, and for an instance, his gaze fell to the peculiar pendant she was wearing. On a gold chain, on the nape of her neck, there was the pendant of a golden snake, not unlike the aesculap sign used by the medical profession, glittering on her bronze skin, but then it was her eyes, that had captured him again, as she replied, after giving the matter some thought.

„You are very far from London here, Governor. And this rift runs both ways. Port Royal is important enough as a trading outpost, politically it is... insignificant, I shall say. Might well be, that you have been simply forgotten here. Might well be, that there were other things at hand. I do not know. But I know, that now, apparently people have remembered this place – and you or your daughter, for whatever reason."

Swann gave her thoughts a moment's consideration before asking the one question that had been pulling at the back of his mind for quite some time.

„Why are you doing this?"

The smile on Lady Halvery's face had a note of being caught, a helplessness that did not fit with the rest of her demeanor.

„Because I, too, have been on the recieving end of his Majesty's disgrace. I do not know exactly what battles my husband fought back home..." There was a halt in her voice that betrayed true distress, und Swann felt the irrational urge to reach out to her, put a comforting hand on her arm, but he did not, fearing to embarrass her as well as himself. Somehow, Crystabella did not strike him to be a woman that would like to be comforted. „I do not know, how he came to have this, but I know he wanted to travel here to see you. It did not save him, and I could not save him. But maybe, I can help you."

Swann was at loss for words. He lowered his gaze to his hands to consider what he just said, then lifted his head again.

„I do not know how to thank you", he admitted, and Lady Halvery answered his words with a smile.

„Just let me stay. The death of my husband... as well as the manner of it... has made it impossible for either me or Leonora to stay in England right now. Frankly, Governor, I do not know, where to turn. And I do not know, if, whatever my husband has done, will earn me a warm welcome anywhere. As for here..." She took a look around as if she could see Port Royal beyound the walls of the room. „.. I had been hoping that this place would be.. far enough from London and that you would let us stay. I might be able to provide a bit of... help concerning the current situation, and so..." Her voice trailed off and she watched Swann, uncertainly and warily, and even if it had not been for that look, his answer would have been clear right away.

„You have my welcome, as long as you want it", Swann promised. „And of course, I gladly accept your help, as much as you are willing to give."

„I am very grateful", Lady Halvery replied seriously. „More then I can say." She sighed softly. „An advice, if I may."

Swann gestured her to speak and she took an instance to compose herself.

„I understand your daughter is... extravagant, so to speak." A soft smile on the Governors face made his nod unnecessary. „I also understand, that she is fascinated with the surrounding... that she has here. These things are talked about, believe me. If you – if we – are to hide that this..." She lifted the sentence that went by the name of Elizabeth Swann, „has gone astray, has gone forgotten, then we have to be forgotten. No news is good news from Port Royal. Good news may be good news too, it strengthens our position back home. But bad news, strange news...", she shook her head, „is completely inacceptable. We have to remember this, if we are to stand a chance."

Swann knew that she was right. Looking at her, it came to his mind, how long it was, that he had left the treacherous waters of London, the court with all its secrets, plans and ploys. He regretted for these games to have caught up with him. And yet, he was facing the inevitable. It was either play or lose Elizabeth.

Really. It was not much of an option he had.

And so an alliance was formed, in the night, sitting in a beautifully decorated room at the Governor's residence, an alliance of need and of cunning.

Port Royal slept unaware of all the bad news during this night.


	9. The very long night of the Commodore

A/N: And the story spins on. Ah, ambition. Ambition and anger. Quite a mix, they are. I feel sorry for our dear commodore, even though, of course, what I do to him is inevitable to the story. As for Jack... he's in his own mix of troubles, as you may think

darklight03: Sparrow back for you :-D

Greetings

Spirit

**Chapter 8:**

**The very long night of Commodore Norrington**

Norrington had chased Sparrow over the open sea for the better part of a week. Usually, when it came to speed, the sturdy _Dauntless_ was no match for the slighter-built _Pearl_. However, on the other hand, the _Dauntless_ knew quite better how to take a blow than the _Pearl_ did. Loosing half a mast and the hulk being pierced by several of the _Dauntless'_ bullets considerably slowed her down, so that Norrington – commandeering a half-damaged ship as well – was able to follow her along the winds.

There were days, when none of the captains saw much of the other ship, but still, they always knew where the others were going, driven by the unbreakable laws of wind and sailing, of a good course and a dangerous crossing. Jack Sparrow was a master of these waters, knew the seas around him like the back of his hand, but so did Norrington, having chased pirates far and wide throughout their own realm.

Neither would have admitted that they had found her match.

Three times during these trying, strenuous days, the _Dauntless _came close enough to use the front cannons on its opponent, scourging more holes in the black hulk of the pirate ship. Sparrow tried, in daring manoeuvers, to trick Norrington into coming aside the_ Back Pearl_ – and within reach of her cannons, but the Commodore was not so easily fooled, and Sparrow sought salvation in flight again, chasing like the wind across caribbean seas. His crew was not idle either, patching up the woulds of their ship with tar, planks and good will, working with the frenzy that only people possessed, who worked against their own destruction.

And while determination and calm confidence reigned aboard the_ Dauntless_, some of the crewmen of the _Pearl_, their captain not the least of them, found themselves enjoying the challenge of the race. Strange enough, but they were people of the seas, people, who loved adventure, and the challenge of escaping the fierce Commodore Norrington pushed them forward, and more than once, they found themselves dreaming of the tales they would tell, escaping the scourge of the pirates of the caribbean not only once, but twice. What a tale this would be.

There were of course those, who were more calm, who saw their chase for what it was – a most dangerous game that might well be threatening to be the destruction of them all. But those worked even harder, knowing what was at stake. And so, the _Pearl_ managed to escape again and again...

**„Jack. You have to do something."**

Jack Sparrow turned around unsteadily to face Gibbs, who had come up to speak to him. He had the unsteady walk of a man being either overtired or drunk, and considering circumstances, Jack figured, he was both. He winced and lowered the spyglass, with which he had been surveying the path of the Dauntless, still at their tail, but still at distance, not undue to the fix Anamaria had recently done on the front hull, where a large gaping hole had limited their speed, lest they would have wanted for the hulk to fill with water. Still, there was too much water in that ship. They were heavy. And slow.

„Yes?" he asked, overly polite as he eyed his first mate.

„We are not making progress", Gibbs remarked, his tone between discomfort and mock. „I hate to say, they are still at our tail."

„So they are." Jack Sparrow had the whole demeanor of a man fully and thoroughly annoyed. „But they have not caught us, have they?"

„No", Gibbs agreed. „But they have been showering us in iron ever since. One man down, if you remember, lying on his sickbed and Halil is not sure he's going to make it. The rest of us in bruises, including yourself."

Jack, quite unconciously, lifted a hand to his forehead, where a nasty slash told of the falling mast five days ago.

„Oh, that", he dismissed, annoyedly.

„Tell me, Mister Gibbs", he mused, gingerly twisting the spyglass between his fingers. „What are we doing right now?"

„We are running away."

„Oh..." Jack did have a way of sounding disappointed. „Are we. Such a pity." He grinned. „What makes you think?"

„Easy", Gibbs replied, counting off his fingers. „We're being pursued, for once. Second, these many turns of directions you take. Third, the fact that we are bloody shot to pieces."

„I see", Sparrow replied, the spyglass slipping through his finger. He caught it again, just before it could hit the floor. „Meaning... you think, that I am clueless about the whole situation."

Gibbs shuffled a trifle uncomfortably. This was not the kind of question he liked to answer.

„Ah", made Jack, as if he had already had his answer. „Well, Mister Gibbs, do you have any idea where we are right now?"

„At sea", Gibbs replied, annoyed by the captain's aloof manner.

„Very good, very perceptive indeed. And... a bit more precise?"

Gibbs raised his eyebrows, and Jack sighed, is gaze drifting away as if bored.

„We are just north of the Maragui archipele, of course."

Gibbs frowned.

„And this means...?"

Jack grinned.

„That we are going there, Gibbs. Plain and simple."

**„They are turning south!"**

Norrington lifted his head from the map he had unfurled on the grand table in the mass to acknowledge Lieutenant Groves, who had just hurried in.

„South", he mused, turning his gaze back to the map before him. „Have the winds changed direction?"

„No, sir", Groves replied curtly and Norrington nodded. So the change of course did not have anything to do with a search for better speed. They had been sailing southeast during the day, the wind right in their back, and apparently, Sparrow was up to something.

„Follow them, of course", he replied, almost off-handedly and frowned at the map.

What does he plan?

Norrington watched the map, took up a ruler to estimate the course Sparrow was taking. He drew a soft line, south, way south from where they were located right now, and stopped, as his pen stumbled upon the small dots, that represented islands in the vast emptiness of the ocean.

„The Maragui archipele", he murmured softly, something annoyingly tugging at the back of his mind.

_Archipele..._

_Archipele in the south..._

_Don't turn south to the archipele..._

The pen dropped and he frowned. He remembered a pale, freckled face, decorated neatly with a plain head. Large eyes, an expression of terror.

_Don't turn south to the archipele._

Commodore James Norrington was by no means a superstitious man. He had all but forgotten the strange incidents on the dock the day of his departure, his thoughts of Elizabeth and his desire to hunt down Sparrow clouding every other thought that might have invaded his mind. And yet, he could not help feeling a shiver running down his spine at the memory of her pleading, bewildered voice.

Norrington shook of the notion with an annoyed wave of his head. Guesswork on part of the lady – he could not fanthom how often he had turned south to whatever archipele in the past – and whatever her motives were, this was ridiculous.

Commodore Norrington straightened with a firm movement and abandoned his chart, coming back on deck to watch over their approach. He would not be prone to superstitious nonsense, and he was very determined to forget the strange words.

**„They are coming closer, Jack."**

Gibbs' voice had a hint of panic to it, and he continuously gazed back to the _Dauntless_, that had caught up with them quite a bit since they had changed course. Now, that they were not sailing with the wind in their back, the disadvantage of the missing mast top was even more evident.

„I know", Sparrow replied, annoyedly, „I know." He looked towards the horizon, the thin, white line, that was telling him that somewhere right there was the archipele, and the goal of their race. He could only hope that they would reach it in time.

„And what are we going to do, once we reach the islands?"

Jack grinned.

„Tell me, Mister Gibbs, what is our main advantage over the Dauntless?"

„Speed", Gibbs answered. „We are faster then her."

„Ah well, they took us that, didn't they. An' besides?"

„Agility."

It was not Gibbs who had answered, and Jack turned, facing the dark-skinned woman that was looking at him doubtingly. Anamaria raised an eyebrow and Jack grinned.

„Precisely. Agility."

**„Have you ever sailed the Maragui archipele, Lieutenant?"**

Norrington had placed both hands on the railing, posessively and proudly surveying their approach. The _Black Pearl_ had lost part of her advance, and soon, they would have the possibility of readying the front guns again.

„No. I have heared rumors about quite a vicious tribe of natives living there, and thus nobody ever decided to station an outpost their. It is too far-off."

„So, a perfect hideout for pirates", Norrington concluded, gritting his teeth. What Groves had said agreed with what he had heared, and suddenly he regretted never to have been here. There must be some reason for Sparrow to head towards that archipele with such determination.

„Very well. We will see. Ready the guns, Lieutenant. Bring us starboard of the Pearl. If we must do this fight in shallow waters, we will."

**The first salve** crashed into the deck, throwing about almost half of the Crew. Jack cursed, first inwardly, then loudly, as he surveyed the damage. This better should work, otherwise Norrington would just tear his precious ship to pieces. He hurried towards the bow as, somewhere on the side of his conciousness, he heard Anamaria call that there was water in the back cabins.

But not far in front of him the sea was foaming. The water had taken on a lighter color and Jack Sparrow grinned. Slowly, determinedly, he took up his place at the helm.

He doubted that Norrington knew of the riffs that surrounded the islands of the Maragui archipele.

May the better captain win...

**„Shallow water ahead",** came the cry from the crow's nest, and Norrington hurried up to the bridge to take a closer look.

What he saw, made his stomach fall for an instance, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. The _Black Pearl_ was sailing right into what appeared to be a field of riffs and rocks, the water foaming and bubbling nastily.

„One must be mad to sail inside this", Groves wondered, his face pale.

„Jack Sparrow is mad", Norrington replied curtly and clenched his hands against the railing of the bridge.

He was not sure, that they – sailing at full speed – were able to turn before the field of rocks before them. The _Dauntless_ was heavy, sturdy, and the damage she had taken from the last days did not help matters. Besides, he was more than reluctant to let the pirate escape.

Reason and fury fought a battle inside him, and for the first time in his life, he was not altogether sure, reason would win. He saw the face of Elizabeth, standing between him and Jack Sparrow, once, then a second time, saw the ruin of the Interceptor, Sparrow's overconfident manner that did not even waver when he was standing right in front of the noose.

Not this time.

„Very well", he said coldly. „Apparently he does know a way through this field of riffs. And he is kind enough to show us."

He strode up to the helm, chasing away Hareham, who had been in charge for the time being.

„We follow him."

„Commodore", Groves protested, but when Norrington turned towards him to stare at him, he fell silent at once. He did not like the look in Norrington's eyes. And he was sure, that the Commodore's opinion would not be turned by mere words.

Thus it was, that Lieutenant Groves did the second best thing. Standing on the bridge he shouted orders to have the Crew man the post so that any order of the Commodore could be carried out with undue delay. And as he looked back at Norrington, his gaze determined and in full concentration, he had a notion, that maybe, they would come out of this victorious.

**„He is following us!"** Anamaria reported, and Jack, taking back only a small look grinned.

„He his courageous, I give him that."

But there was no time for further consideration. He had crossed this riff once, quite some time ago, and it had been a very tough race and earned the _Pearl_ quite a lot of the scars that marked her hull today. But he had done it, and he was pretty sure that, even if Norrington could, the _Dauntless_ could not.

Eyes focussed on the foam before him, he turned the wheel just a tiny bit to pass another of the rocks, that were hidden just below the surface.

**„Lieutenant, another salve."**

There was sweat on the Commodore's brow, and Groves was quite sure, that this was not due to the caribbean sun. The cannons cracked, and there was a scream to be heard on the other ship. Someone had been hit, and for a moment, the _Black Pearl_ itself was tumbling a bit from side to side. However, the scourge of the seas was not so easily conquered. The pirates gained control of their ship agai, and Sparrow drove a sharp turn to the right, just so avoiding a rock that had previously been hidden by the ship itself.

Groves heared an incoherent sound from Norrington, and as he turned his head, he could see the Commodore giving the steering wheel a sharp twist.

It was not enough, though.

The jolt was hard enough to send almost everybody off his feet. There were cries, as two men who had been manning their posts between the sails lost their grip on their holds and fell down, one of them hitting the deck with an extremely nasty sound.

The other, more lucky or less lucky, as you like to view it, was tossed into the sea, his cry overshadowed by the call „Man overboard!" that somebody, who still had the presence of mind to oversee the situation, uttered as the ship rolled to starboard, then back. Another splash in the water told of another one falling down, and this time, there was no cry, because there was no one left standing to survey the situation. Groves scrambled back to his feet, saw the Commodore at the wheel doing the same, trying to bring the rolling ship back on course, but they drifted left, and another nasty sound spoke of another riff scratching the _Dauntless'_ hull, this time on the other side.

A roll of thunder coming from downstairs was a telltale sign, that some of the cannons had gone loose, the screams accompaning the sound told of men buried under them.

The situation was going quickly out of hand.

Like through a thick blanket, he could hear orders shouted, saw Norrington, apparently recovered, but it took quite some time, before Lieutenant Groves himself was able to get up again to follow whatever the Commodore bid him to do.

**For six hours,** the Crew of the _Dauntless_ fought for the survival of themselves and their ship. For six hours, they were up to careful maneuvering, to patching holes that did not seem to close, unable to avoid all the riffs around them and somehow trying to reach the white shores of any of the islands around. For six, long, dreary hours, Norrington stood on the bridge, never leaving the steering wheel as if it were his responsibility alone to bring them back to safe waters.

When, finally, the battered _Dauntless_ reached white shores, he was barely able to stand.

Yet he took it upon himself to survey the damage.

Twelve men had died.

One had fallen from the mast, three had been washed of the deck. Two had been drowned by the water rushing into the hulk of the ship and six – oh god, six – had been rolled over by loose cannons.

Norrington did not spare himself. He went to every single one of them, looked at every single injury. He stepped to every one of the hurt, two of whom would not last the night either, talking to them or simply looking down on them, expression unfanthomable, but words kind.

And it did not take Groves, who knew him quite well, to see that during these hours, something within the Commodore died.


	10. Orchids in Singapore

A/N: There's me, notoriously back. Bringing you the next chapter, which, after leaving the Dauntless, leads us to Port Royal again, where Elizabeth is truly beginning to wonder, what kind of guests her father has invited into their house...

Greetings

Spirit

**Chapter 9:**

**Orchids in Singapore**

It took only a single sleepness night to convince Governor Swann that he could not put off the talk he was supposed to have with Elizabeth. He painfully agonized the whole morning for the correct words with whitch to adress his daughter. The whole issue was much more difficult than could be seen with a fleeting glance. His first idea was to confide in his daughter fully, to tell Elizabeth of the disturbing sentence from London, of his concern and of the necessuity to be careful, for her sake if for nothing else, to avoid scandal and talk.

On second thought, he dismissed this as being not one of his wiser plans. Considering Elizabeth's temperament, this might lead to rash actions on her part, actions, that would by no means lead into any desired direction, and worse, actions which would be completely uncontrollable.

To be able to keep her in check, he would have to try and decieve her, feed her bits and pieces of the truth without telling the truth in total.

Not something he was looking forward to, truth to be told.

Having decided this, he had to find out what kind of behavior would be expected from his daughter. He briefly considered asking her not to see the Turner boy again. He had been quite put out by Elizabeth's sudden and unforseeable decision, and this would provide an opportunity too god to pass on. However, this would do more harm then it would mend. It was doubtful, that he was able to stop the news about the Black Pearl incident from spreading, but with any luck, gossip would link Jack Sparrow to it mainly, and not the person of Elizabeth Swann – provided, that none of the Navy men did talk.

The Governor made a mental note to speak to the Commodore on behalf of this as soon as he returned from his chase for Sparrow. With any luck, this would also brign good news as the first step to win back the favor of London.

And still, he could not bring himself to shove aside his curiosity concerning the motives of whoever had brought this sentence upon them. Even with the odds in the royal court dramatically changing, it was hard to imagine why anyone would bother to think about the far-off colony and its inhabitant, especially one, whohad no voice in politics and public, such as Elizabeth.

Heavens be thanked for Crystabella Halvery. Had it not been for the brave decision of the lady, he might have well found himself watching his daughter at the gallows in no time at all.

The mere thought of it turned his stomach. This had to be prevented at all costs.

Of course, the talk with Elizabeth was by no means pleasant. He had invited her to the gardens, strolling around between bushes and flowers and had tried – hesitatingly, to make her understand without revealing too much.

„I have no idea, what you are talking about", was the response he got, Elizabeth, angry, annoyed, irritated. „As if I were to scandalize you every other day."

„This is not, what I meant, Elizabeth", he answered uneasily. „All I am asking of you is to try and avoid anything that could provoke undue gossip about you, your valor or your person."

He had clasped his hands behind his back in a gesture of discomfort.

„Meaning?"

„Meaning no midnight trips to the forge. Try and resort to proper behavior towards Mr. Turner. No talk of pirates. And no mention of Sparrow."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

„Why all of this?" she asked and Swann cursed inwardly. His daughter had grown to be a perceptive woman indeed. But fortunately, he had thought of this and had an answer ready.

„Elizabeth, listen to me. Both of us might agree, that your conduct during that whole Black Pearl affair has generally led to more good than bad. But you and Turner HAVE let a pirate escape from rightful justice, and no matter how justified you feel your actions were, they were, frankly put, against the law. As long as Norrington – who, being your partner in crime and in general very... ah... inclined towards you can be trusted in this subject – and myself are the law enforcers in Port Royal, this can be amended, but if word goes to the wrong ears..." He shrugged. „I may be able to protect you. I do not know, if I can protect Turner as well."

Elizabeth paled. She had not looked at this side of the coin yet, and she did not like at all what she saw.

„I cannot believe what you are saying", she whispered, and the Governor avoided her gaze.

„I am merely concerned for your wellfare and that of your fiancee. I wish only the best for you."

Elizabeth closed her eyes and pressed her palms agains her forehead.

„What would you have me do?"

„Be careful, Elizabeth, I beg you. Be watchful in what you do, and try not to draw any unnecessary attention."

She bit her lip, considering.

„I will try", she sighs. „For Will's sake, I will try."

Governor Swann felt that his smile was wane, but he could not help it.

„You put my mind at rest, Elizabeth", he offered weak comfort.

After talking to her father, Elizabeth was left to her own devices and annoyedly prowled the rooms and corridors of the mansion. She longed to talk to Will about all this, but was not sure whether she should do so, not only because she had just promised her father from refraining from any spontaneous trips to the forge. Given Will's temperament he would feel obliged to step in for her – and in this, Jack Sparrow was partially right indeed – this did from time to time seem more trouble than help.

So part of her was glad that her decision of how much she would tell her fiancee about all this was put off for at least the next day, when he had promised to step by the residence to talk to her. This would give her some time to come to a conclusion.

Which still left her with a free afternoon at her leisure, and she was not sure how to spend it. Thoughtfully strolling back towards the gardens to enjoy the afternoon sun, Elizabeth would not have thought, that a suitable opportunity would present itself so easily as she stepped out onto the terrace in the form of a very distracted-looking Leonora Haverly.

She had not seen so much as a glimpse of the young woman since her arrival – quite astonishing, taking into account the fact that her mother seemed to possess the ability to be everywhere at once.

Elizabeth stood still in the rim of the door to watch her.

Leonora appeared to be around her age, a few years younger maybe, and had inherited the dark, rich curls of her mother. She lacked the exquisite beauty of Crystabella, though, appearing to be pale and small, her narrow face wearing a closed expression and her eyes barely focussing on the embroidery that she was doing. Her fingers were agile, her embroidery much more precise then Elizabeth's was, but still she seemed detached somehow, hardly reacting when Elizabeth coughed politely and stepped onto the terrace.

„Leonora?"

He was quite unsure of whether she should adress her formally or by her given name, but being an open person by nature she settled for the latter, to maybe establish a connection between her and the girl that did so much seem like a frightening animal. Elizabeth stepped towards her, pulled up another chair to sit beside her in the shadow of a large palm plant. Leonora looked up at her fleetingly, but, seemingly unmarked by the open smile Elizabeth was wearing, returned her gaze to the handkerchief she was working on, gazing not at the embroidery.

„I'm Elizabeth", the Governors daughter offered, a bit confusedly. She had thought Leonora to be simply timid, maybe also tired from the voyage, but her demeanor was a bit beyound that. Elizabeth felt a pang of sorrow. She had often wished to have a friend of her age at the mansion, some confidant in her own home. She was on good terms with many of the Port Royal citizens, but being the Governor's daughter put a certain awkwardness in almost every friendship. However, it seemed, as if Leonora was not exactly offering for this vacant job. „I hope you are feeling better after your long journey."

„They told me there were orchids in Singapore."

Her voice was quiet, distracted as was all of her demeanor, and her words made absolutely no sense.

„Excuse me?"  
She lifted her head to finally recognize Elizabeth, looking at her as if she had not seen her before.

„Orchids", she replied softly, with a hint of sadness. „They told me that there were orchids in Singapore."

„I... do not know about Singapore", Elizabeth replied, bewildered. „But... we have some orchids in the garden, if you like to see it. They grow very well here, you will be pleased."

„I have gotten one in London, so long ago..." She smiled sadly. „It was white."

„Come." Elizabeth held out her hand to Leonora, who looked at her with wide, dark, bewildered eyes. „I will show you the orchids we have here."

There was a smile on Leonora's features, timid and withdrawn, but still a smile, and she put aside her embroidery to get up and follow Elizabeth, who felt as if she were leading a small child. And indeed such was Leonora's joy as she saw the flowers in the garden, a full area of orchids in white and blue, like a slow, wavering sea. Her face lit up and she laughed, tentatively putting out a hand to touch the delicate blossom.

The joy, however, did not last for long.

„Ah, here you are!"

Elizabeth flinched and so did Leonora, but there was nothing even remotely frightful in the sight of a smiling Crystabella Halvery strolling towards them over the lawn.

„Leonora, so nice to see you took a walk. And Miss Swann... so nice of you to take her out." Elizabeth got up and so did her strange companion, who immediately found her way to the side of her mother. „I am very glad, that she as a companion for the moment, believe me. Back in London, this was hardly ever possible, you see?"

Elizabeth nodded sympathetically and felt thoroughly intrigued.

„I hope you did enjoy the stroll, darling, did you?" she turned towards her daughter, who nodded indifferently, all traces of a smile gone. „I must regret however, Miss Swann, Leonora has been complaining about headaches since morning. I fear I must rob you of her company for now to have her recover – the voyage has been a true toil for the poor thing." She took her daughter's hand affectionally in hers, patting it comfortingly. „There will be plenty of time in the next days, I am sure."

She swept off in a swish of skirts and satin, taking with her the very queer Leonora, who seemed quite indifferent to this sudden disturbance.

Elizabeth sat down into the grass and chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully.

Yes. There was definitely something very queer about Crystabella Halvery.


	11. Partners in crime

A/N: And there I am, back again. This is more of an intermediate chapter, setting up the pieces for the next one, which hopefully will be worth the wait though. And still, there are alliances forming, but who knows, which alliances will hold?

Follow the just-not-so-average afternoon in the Swann household - and as an extra cookie, the title may start to make sense :D

darklight03: You truly make my day :D

Really glad you like this story, I truly hope I gan live/write up to your expectations. You are right, Susannah has been off quite some while, but she has been busy sewing Elizabeth's dress and did not have the time to entangle in my story yet :-D. However, the next chapters are full of her.

As for the pairings – I think you have seen already that I changed the summary indicating them, it's Elizabeth and Will (because I did not want to drift away too much from canon and because they match quite nicely in temperament), Norrington and ... well one of the new characters (though this is by no means the only line of the story, it somewhat circles around it for a bit.)

As for the rest, Jack for example... I am having enough trouble writing him as it is, without putting him into any situations where I cannot possibly concieve how he will react.. maybe, as the story drags along, I find a better understanding with that elusive man, and then, who knows :D

**Chapter 10:**

**Partners in crime**

„Goodness gracious! What happened?"

Crystabella Halvery put one tanned hand over her mouth in shock and exasperation. And, truth to be told, even though Governor Swann was by no means prone to such female gestures, he could heartily understand why Crystabella Halvery was acting thus. Because he felt the same shock, even though he did not express it in the same manner.

„I have no idea", he murmured, shaking his head softly, staring at the object of both of their wonderment.

They were standing on the balcony of the governor's mansion, looking out into the port, where, first far on the horizon, but now already painfully close, they had seen the approach of the Dauntless – or what was left of her.

The former proud ship looked as if it were barely able to advance without sinking to the ground. It lay deep – a telltale sign, that the hulk was full of water, and there were rifts and marks along both sides of the ship. All in all, the Dauntless could have been lucky to have gotten so far.

„This is the Commodore, is it not?" Crystabella whispered. Her voice was full of worry and distress, and Swann feared, that, would he turn, there would be tears in her eyes. He nodded numbly.

„I fear so."

„This is... a disaster", she continued, softly, every bit of distress vibrating in her voice. „This was the flagship of your fleet, wasn't it?"

Swann nodded, before the implications of this got through to him. And then he paled, feeling as if he had lost all solid ground under his feet.

Bad, bad news indeed.

**Port Royal lay silent in the noon heat.** Most of those, who had come over here from english shores had tried to keep up their way and rhythm of life that they knew from their homeland, as if the Caribbean was just an island off the coast of Wales, with a trifle more sun and an exotic touch to it.

There were those, who were stubborn enough to do so even after years of living under the blistering sun, but most of them soon adapted to the way of life that almost everybody followed here.

It did – most definitely – not include any strenuous activity during the hottest hours of the day.

Most of the inhabitants tried to pass away the time in their own manner, but still, many of them saw the arrival of the Dauntless coming back to the port.

There were those, who did not know enough about naval matters to understand, what state she was in, but there were also those, quite like Crystabella Halvery and Governor Swann, who, from their higher viewpoint, may have well been the first to see the ship arriving, did indeed understand, that something dreadful must have happened.

Few of them, however, found the agility in the afternoon heat, to go down to the port to learn what had happened – gossip would have spread soon, anyway – and so there were only few people who did see the manner, in which Commodore Norrington left his ship.

His face was ashen, closed, the green eyes devoid of any expression as he asked for a horse to be brought to him. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he mounted the brown mare, turning towards the Governor's residence.

It may well have been the most painful way of his whole life.

Not, that this was the first time Commodore Norrington had lost men while on duty. The sea was a harsh mistress, and he had seen many good men give their life to it before their time. There had been a few deaths while he was on command, too. Of course, not all had returned from their infamous excursion to the Isla de la Muerta, and the chase for pirates had demanded many lifes and would continue to do so, until the last of them was dead and gone, but never, never had James Norrington faced such an utter and complete disaster that was entirely of his own fault.

He had lost fourteen men, good men, one of his officers among them, because Jack Sparrow had outwitted him, because he had given in to irrationality and anger, because he had been weak and incompetent.

He closed his eyes, but the faces remained. The faces he had seen after they had brought the Dauntless to relatively safe shores, the faces of his men, dead, maimed, blaming him for the disaster that had been brought upon them.

It hurt to know that they were right.

But still, James Norrington was a man to face the results of his actions. And so he went to tell Swann what had happened.

Prepared for everything.

Silently, he hoped, that fate would at least spare him to look upon Elizabeth in this hour. He was not sure what he would do, if he were forced to look into her clear eyes in the very hour of his defeat.

**„This is... a disaster."**

It was clear that Governor Swann was trying very hard not to put too much blame on the Commodore, who stood before his table, stiff and defiant, looking him right in the eye. It was apparent that he was waiting for a hammer to fall, but Swann, who liked the ambition and loyalty of the young man, was reluctant to do so. He knew quite well, that Jack Sparrow was difficult to handle, and from what could be read between the lines of the report that Norrington gave, his voice clear, strong and never wavering, he did not doubt that any lesser man would have brought back neither ship nor men from the death grip of Sparrow's trap.

Yet, the news were incredibly inconvenient as they came.

„I take full responsibility for it, Governor", Norrington replied. He had clasped his hands behind his back, fingers holding fingers in a death grip. „I will accept judgement as you feel adequate."

Swann sighed, putting a weary hand to his forehead. He was unsure, what to do. He was angry at the bad news – quite frankly, terrified, to tell the truth – but he did not know what to do to make amends to what seemed a difficult situation.

„Commodore", he carefully begann, placing his fingertips against each other. There was not much of the fatherly manner that Swann had often displayed, but still there was a friendly, calming way in his demeanor, that seemed to be one of his most prominent features. He was an easy man to serve, and he continued to be so, answering Norrington's words with a – even though cautious – kindness. „Commodore, judgement will not lead us anywhere. I know very well about your qualities, that I have come to appreciate during the last years. I do not doubt that you acted on your best intentions, and I am placing full trust in your sincerity of wishing to catch the pirate Sparrow. Nevertheless..."

He placed his fingers flatly on the table to push himself up, strolled towards the Commodore, who did not move, only turned his head to be able to watch the Governor. „Nevertheless this is devastating news. And it is coming at a very inconvenient time."

Swann leaned towards Norrington, lowering his voice a bit.

„I want to be as frank with you as I can, Commodore. It seems to me that things are... changing back home. And the things that are changing, might put us in quite a precarious position. It is of a vital significance, which I cannot stress enough, that we are... successfull in our dealings. With pirates, and beyound."

Norrington frowned slightly, the grip of his fingers relaxing a bit. His curiosity, his concern, both had been raised, fighting a battle against guilt and quickly gaining ground. „On the same line, it is, I regret to say, very important not to let out word concerning the incidence of the Black Pearl."

„I have already composed my report", Norrington answered, unable to keep bewilderment out of his voice. „I did not send it, but maybe Lieutenant Gillette did. I do not know."

„Stop it if you can." The Governors voice was close to a hiss, the intensity of the order running a feeling of discomfort down the Commodore's spine.

„How am I to explain the loss of the Interceptor?"

Swann closed his eyes, as if tired, once more raising a weary hand to his forehead.

„The Interceptor... yes. I will think of something, Commodore. For the moment, do not explain it at all. In fact, do not mention it."

Norrington frowned. The whole affair sounded extremely disquieting. And yet, he felt uneasy about the game of hiding that the Governor was proposing. He had never liked these ways of politics.

„What will you have me do?" he asked, nevertheless. Swann, being governor of Port Royal, was his commander as long as no emergency situation arose, and thus he was expecting orders from him.

„Catch Sparrow for me, Commodore. Catch Sparrow for Port Royal." For an instance, it seemed, that he wanted to add another word, but he refrained from it, shaking off whatever he had wanted to say not without difficulty. „It is vital you do not fail this time."

Norrington nodded, straightening his back.

„I will not disappoint you, Governor."

Swann put a hand on his shoulder, smiling at him in heartfelt fatherly affection and trust.

„Thank you very much."

**Elizabeth did not see the Dauntless arriving.** In fact, she had not been out of the mansion all day, sleeping late and reading, then, after a small meal somewhere between a breakfast and a lunch, getting up to dress and await the visitors that had announced themselves to pay her a visit during the afternoon. Elizabeth, for the sake of her father, had mostly stayed at the Governor's estate during the last days, bored herself dreadfully, longing for something to break her daily routine.

She had spent quite some time pondering Leonora Halvery, whom – not for the lack of trying on her part – she did not manage to coax into a second exchange similar to their strange conversation about orchids and Singapore. The young woman was rarely to be seen, and even more rarely without the towering presence of her mother, who, on the other hand, seemed to be more part of the Governor's household by the minute.

She had talked to Will about Leonora, and unlike last time, her fiancee was inclined to agree this time, after a fleeting encounter with the spanish girl in the hallway and an exchange with Lady Halvery and the Governor at tea. However, the blacksmith was as clueless as herself as to what to make out of the situation.

This was one of the reasons why she was looking forward to this afternoon's visitor.

Susannah Delanney had finished the first draft of the dress for the engagement ceremony and had asked for an opportunity to do a fitting, which Elizabeth had gladly granted. Her father, learning of the presence of the young seamstress, had asked her to have Susannah step by Lady Halvery, who had declared she also was in need – and want – for a new dress.

Elizabeth was curious as to what Susannah would make of Crystabella Halvery. The seamstress, bound to have many contacts with different people due to her profession, seemed to have quite a good knowledge on human nature. She had wondered for quite a lot of times what Susannah was thinking when she was standing aside, eyes alert and mouth shut, with a gaze that seemed to leave nothing – and no one – out of her attention.

In the eyes of men, a woman's parlor often is a place of mystery. Here, in the hidden realms where neither father nor husband ever attained much power, maybe lies the key to a lady's freedom, the only room belonging to her, and her alone, a place of whispered secrets and shared confidences, the lady being not properly dressed, the subject of her confidence not caring. It was a place dedicated to women, and to the attributes men usually placed in all women in general, the longing for gossip, the desire for friendship and the wish to be able to decorate themselves in a beautiful manner.

Usually, Elizabeth Swann was deeply annoyed by this cliche. However, today, her conversation with Susannah Delanney was quite fitting to fulfill a lot of expectations, with her standing on a stool dressed in a cloth that had not yet fully decided to become a decent dress, Susannah hurrying around her with her pins and needles, with chalk and coal to skillfully mark the places that would next be subdued to scissors and stitches. And they were chatting, idly, about this and that, Elizabeth talking mostly, but not solely, Susannah throwing in comments in the few moments her mouth was free of any needles she held between pressed lips to have them at hand.

„So how about you?" Elizabeth asked, smiling, when Susannah arrived at her front. „I keep on gossiping and talking and you have hardly uttered a word yet."

The seamstress looked up at her, needles pressed between her lips and grinned softly, raising her shoulders as if in defeat. Elizabeth, as in response, raised her eyebrow, and coaxed Susannah into taking out the needles out of her mouth.

„What do you want to know?"

„I don't know. What you have been doing all these days."

Susannah shrugged, smiling impishly.

„Sewing."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

„That I can see. I mean, how is your mother?"

That summoned a sad smile on Susannahs face, as she put the neglected needles into her own dress, pulling out one by one as she continued her work.

„Better", she answered. „Not good, but recovering. She cannot walk long distances, but she has started to work again."

„Good to hear", Elizabeth answered. „I have been very worried for her."

„So have I", Susannah confessed. „But I think now she will be feeling fine again, soon. She starts to criticise the work I have done during her illness – this must be a sign of her getting better."

Elizabeth laughed at her dry tone.

„So I figure. So you will have to work less during the next days?"

Susannah sighed softly.

„I do not think so, to be honest. A formal dress of nobility takes quite some time to make, and there were a lot of demands recently that I could not handle alone. I fear, I am looking towards a busy month. And with the dress for Lady Halvery..."

„Ah, Lady Halvery", Elizabeth picked up the name thoughtfully, glad, that the conversation had, quite casually, reached the point where she had wanted it. „Have you met her?"

„No", Susannah declined. „I have seen her from afar, and heard from her, but I would not claim to really have... seen her."

Elizabeth pondered this and her future steps in this affair for quite some time, before she continued.

„I see."

She let her words trail off into nothingness, thoughtfully watching the confident work of the seamstress for the better part of a minute.

„Miss Delanney, might I ask a favor of you?"

Susannah lifted her head.

„Of course, Miss Swann. What is it?"

„You are going to Lady Halvery after being here, right?"

„This is what I have been planning to do, yes", Susannah agreed. „She expects me at four in the afternoon."

„Tell me what you make of her."

„I beg your pardon?" Susannah stopped working to look up at the governor's daughter, a puzzled frown entering her features. „I am not sure I know what you mean."

„If you want my opinion, she is... intimidating. I do not know, what to make of her."

Susannah pursed her lips, puzzledly.

„And what can I do?"

Elizabeth shrugged, a bit lightheartedly.

„I want a second opinion."

Her smile was too casual to be true, Susannah thought by way of passing. But she was going to Lady Halvery anyway. And if nothing else, Elizabeth Swann had stirred her curiosity.


	12. Unraveling Susannah

A/N: This is not just your average chapter. This, in fact, is the center of the very first idea I had for this story, this scene was there before the story was. So, when reading it, keep in mind,that it has been simmering quite some time, and that I really have liked to write it...

Btw: Oh for the joy of cliffhangers...

**Chapter 11:**

**Unraveling Susannah**

Even though Susannah Delanney truly and heartily liked Elizabeth Swann, she was glad, when she was able to excuse herself to step out of the warm parlor into the cool entrance hall of the Governor's mansion.

The day had already started being warm, and by the time noon approached, it had been unbearably hot. Susannah was born in the Caribbean and therefore used to the climate, but even she had groaned under the temperature, fearing the long, hot path up to the Governor's mansion.

This was why she had decided to give in to temporary comfort and leave at home her gloves, which were her steady companions, the one attribute of her dresses that never was missed. There were many among the townsfolk who thought her queer because of this. Of course, back in England, gloves were seen as elegant and befitting of a young lady, however, far off the homeland under a much warmer sun, this credo had been weakened, and it seemed quite strange that of all the people, Susannah, who had never seen England's cold shores, would so persistantly keep to that custom. She had , due to her nimble fingers, gotten very used to the thin fabric covering her hands, and it did not even annoy her to wear the gloves when she was working, picking up needles, thread and cloth alike with nimble fingers.

She quietly endured the smiles she got because of this strange habit of hers and answered them with a smile of their own. She knew, that the reason for her hiding her hands would sound even stranger than the fake sense of propriety, that usually passed as an explanation for her habit. It was beyound her knowledge or ability to explain, why the gloves were the best tool to avoid her returning headaches, but she had recognised this connection with the same, clear perception of hers that she devoted almost everything she saw and did, and acted upon it. Asked to explain, however, she would have had to shrug helplessly, and so she preferred to avoid the topic in total.

At any case, today she had decided to play at her luck and left at home the gloves. The result had been quite forseeable. A nasty headache was buzzing in her skull, blurring her vision and making it hard to concentrate. She was quite unsure whether she would be able to fulfill Elizabeth's request about an opinion about Lady Halvery. Right now, Susannah wanted nothing more than a dark room, a bed and a cap of sleep.

This however, was not, what this day held in store for her. But she cherished the few moments of repose that she had, slowly, step by step, trailing down the large staircase in the deserted entrance hall. Already the cooler air of this room helped a little.

**She was not very concerned,** when she heard a door in the lower part of the building, and the purposeful stride of somebody entering the hall. She had every right to be here, and she had been on good terms with more or less all members of the Swann household.

The person entering the hall at this moment however was, no matter how much he might have wished otherwise, no member of said household.

Commodore James Norrington, not quite sure whether feeling relieved or more burdened after his conversation with the Governor, was indeed very rushed to leave the mansion. He longed for a moment of solitude, for one single clear thought, to be precise, something, which seemed to have eluded him during the past days. He by no means wanted to meet either Elizabeth or Turner, and he felt incredibly exhausted and overwrought.

Later on, he did not know what caught his attention on the staircase. He would always be prone to claim that it was a sound, but Susannah was quiet, not wanting to disturbe the man in his leave, not moving, just standing there and watching from her high perch between the ground and first floor.

And thus, when Norrington turned, at a flash of color, at an unexpected hue, at a movement at the corner of his eye, he saw a small, slight woman in a well tailored dress, dark, serious eyes and black curls, hidden in a neatly wrought bun at the nape of her neck. She was watching him in an unintrusive manner, politely standing against the wall. She carried a basked filled with cloth and other different items.

And he recognized her immediately.

He imagined her wide-eyed, face full of terror, and even though she was silent, he knew, that once she started to speak, he would hear words in that same voice, that had been haunting him since the day he had almost lost ship and crew in the rock field of the Maragui archipele.

_Don't turn south to the archipele._

And his control, his composure, his sanity shattered like crystal on a rocky shore.

He whirled around towards the young woman, took a series of hasty steps towards her, lurching forward like a predator on his prey, the expression on his face as if carved in marble.

She retreated, eyes wide in surprise and shock, her expression not quite, but remotely ressembling that of another time, another day, and just like before, she lifted a steadying hand as if to keep him at distance.

„Why did you say that?" he hissed, standing close to her, threatening, menacing, towering over her small form. Susannah stared at him, heart pounding, completely and utterly confused.

„Commodore", she protested, weakly, taken aback by his reaction. „What... do you mean."

„On the pier. Why did you say that? How could you know!" He lifted his hands to grab her shoulders, then thought better of it, a last remnant of his sense of propriety interfering. Susannah, back against the wall, flinched. She, quite honestly, had no idea what he was talking about, and to have Port Royal's second most important man threaten her thus at her was quite a frightening image.

„I am sorry", she answered, her voice remarkably steady while she lifted her head to look the Commodore in the eye. She took a deep, calming breath against the fluttering of her pulse, trying to maintain some sense of control amidst her fear and utter confusion. „I do not know what you mean, I assure you. What have I said t..."

He cut her off, bringing his face close to hers, his features contorted in rage and something that went much deeper than that. Susannah shrank back innerly at the tone in his eyes and trembled.

„The archipele", Norrington hissed. Still he was not screaming, his voice a hiss, deadly calm and yet much more unsettling than sheer fury would have been. „In the south. Fourteen men have died there. Good men. Fourteen men!" He gulped for air, the tension vibrating through every fibre of his body. „How did you know of that?"

She shook her head in shock, eyes wide.

„I did not, Commodore."

„Do not fool me", the Commodore answered. „I know very well you did. All I don't know yet, is why. But if I find out, I will..."

„What is going on here?"

Norrington shot back, turning towards the speaker and so did Susannah, still trembling to the bone.

On the top of the stair stood Elizabeth, brows knitted in a frown, eyes glittering dangerously.

Susannah's gaze shot back to the Commodore, catching a look of utter hurt, maybe even desperation on his face before he straightened again, forcing something closely resembling a calm expression onto his features. And yet, there was a storm beneath his eyes.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, hurried down the steps to place herself between Susannah and the Commodore, protectively shielding the seamstresses body away from the Commodore's unpredictable behavior. She was quite resembling a lioness, defending her young, ready to jump, ready to bite.

Norrington was apparently at loss for words for a moment, trying very hard not to meet young Miss Swann's gaze, and Elizabeth was by no means a patient woman. She did not wait for an explanation. She stormed on.

„I have no idea whatsoever what has let you to behave in such a manner. Miss Delanney is our guest – my guest, in fact, and I will not have her treated in just this way."

He straightened again, and when he lifted his head, his eyes were completely impassive, and such was his face, calm, schooled, devoid of expression.

„I apologize, Miss Swann", he said, tone matching his face. „And to you, Miss Delanney." He had a way of pronouncing her family name that she distinctly did not like.

„What has happened to you?" Elizabeth asked, always being one to flare quickly and calm just as fast, her kind heart reaching out to the apparent distance of the man before her. She knew very well that this incident was very – very – far off the usual demeanor of Commodore James Norrington. For a fleeting instance, she wondered, as a wild thought, what she had done to him.

„That, I regret to say, is none of your concern, Miss Swann", he replied, the distance between them miles wide. „As much as I appreciate your interest, I have to decline. I apologize for this... incident. Good day."

By the look he shot towards Susannah, she was quite sure, that his words towards Elizabeth had been sincere, while the apology towards her had been nothing more than a farce.

And yet, Susannah could not help wondering why, watching his retreating back, straight and unbroken, she felt so completely and utterly sad.

**„I do not know what has gotten into him",** Elizabeth wondered, only moments later, when Susannah and she sat on the steps of the staircase, the seamstress tiredly leaning her head against the cooling wall. She shrugged helplessly, closed her eyes against the pounding headache, that seemed to become worse by the minute.

„He seemed quite beside himself", she wondered weakly. „I... honestly do not know what he meant. He must have mistaken me for somebody else."

That was highly unlikely, and Elizabeth knew this. The commodore had an excellent memory for aquaintances, and if he claimed to have talked to Susannah, it was very probable that he had done so. On the other hand, Susannah had never seemed to be a person to easily forget something memorable – and if the Commodore's words were anything to judge by, their conversation had been a distinctly strange one.

Elizabeth sighed inwardly, wondering, why, apparently, almost every inhabitant of Port Royal she knew had decided to give in to very weird behavior lately.

However, Susannah seemed quite distressed by the Commodore's appearance, looking tired and lost as she sat on the steps, being more close-mouthed than ever.

And so Elizabeth decided to agree against better judgement.

„That must be it."

Susannah hardly nodded.

„Are you feeling quite well?" Elizabeth carefully enquired, and the seamstress flinched, albeit with a certain delay.

„Oh... yes. Quite well, thank you."

„I can give your apologies to Lady Halvery, if you want to. Maybe you should go home and take a bit of rest. The whole affair must have been quite a shock for you."

For a moment, Susannah seemed to consider this, and it was plainly written on her face, that there was nothing she would have preferred to doing exactly what Elizabeth had proposed. But something, a sense of duty maybe, led her to deny.

„No, Miss Swann. You are very kind, but I think, given a few moments' rest, I will be quite myself again."

She looked at her, trying a weak smile, but the hands straightening her dissheveled curls skillfully, were softly trembling.

**Elizabeth had tried a second time to** coax Susannah into going home, but she had remained adamant. Not because of feeling better – in fact, the headache had worsened, beginning to blur her vision, but the voice of her mother stood clear in her mind. They seemingly for the time being had earned the favor of the Governor's family, a trust and a confidence that could not easily be replaced if lost. Susannah was well aware of that. They were well-off for the moment, but both of them remembered very well that things had not always run so smoothly. And thus, she did not want to risk crossing Lady Halvery by giving in to her temporary discomfort.

Instead, she concentrated very hard on schooling her expression, in not letting any of the pounding pain raging behind her forehead show, as she turned towards the western wing, where lay the quarters of Crystabella Halvery and her daughter.

The lady greeted her with her usual demeanor of grandeur, showering Susannah in a friendly greeting, that, by the sheer force of its brightness, threatened to shove the seamstress off her feet. She curtsied, if a little awkwardly, the usual grace of the gesture hindered by the unsettling feeling of being underwater, of losing equilibrium if moving to fast. She twinkled, once, twice, to clear her vision, but it did not help much. Fleetingly she marveled at the intensity of her pains, threatening to surmount everything she had experienced before, but a small voice calling her to duty brought her back to relative alertness, as she looked into Lady Halvery's dark eyes.

„Miss Swann informs me", she answered, calmly, satisfied, that at least her voice did not betray her, „that you wish for a new dress." She stood by the door, demurely, even though Lady Halvery's smile seemed altogether calming and inviting.

„Yes, indeed, I do", she answered, friendly. „And since I was informed that your skill exceeds everything else that can be found in this colony, I could not do but ask upon your art."

Under normal circumstances, Susannah would have maybe been pleased, maybe been suspicious at the overly extravagant praise, and would have replied with a modest smile, today however, she was by no means in the condition to react with her usual schooled demeanor.

„Thank you for the trust", she answered, the words sounding inelegant even to her distracted ears, and she put down her basket to take out a tape measure and coal pen and paper, to be able to take notes.

„Do you have any special demands for the dress, Lady Halvery", she asked, pen at ready, and Crystabella would not have been her usual self, had she not given this subject the utmost of thought. She showered Susannah in a whirl of materials and cuts, colors and fabrics, and she copied as best as she could, unable to do as she usually did, and already do an estimation on the cut and manner, that would be best for the dress Crystabella Halvery had in mind. She just copied what she said, delaying all further considerations to a time when she would again be able to think, barely seeing what she was writing, acting on full impulse.

When at least Lady Halvery fell silent, she nodded, immediately wishing she had said „Yes" instead.

„I will have to take some measures", she continued after she had put away pen and paper. „To be able to cut the dress for the most fitting form." She cursed herself on her inelegant manner of speech. However, her customer did not seem to mind.

„Go ahead", she said cordially, stretching out her arms, and Susannah took up her tape measure and advanced towards her. She planned to hold the tape measure to Lady Halvery's wrist with her left, then draw it up to her shoulder with her right hand, but she never got as far as that.

Her bare fingers touched the skin of the spanish woman, and all and everything dissolved in painful white.

A shock went through Crystabella and Susannah alike at the touch, and both of them whirled around to face the other, gazes locking in a moment in time.

Seconds, minutes, hours might have passed as they looked at each other, motionless and silent. On Susannahs eyes, there was an expression of pure, utter terror, features contorted in inhuman fear, as she startled to tremble, to tremble, as if she were a leaf in the storm, clinging to the branch and yet about to fall. Her breath was coming in gasps, tears were standing in her eyes and she was frozen in horror at what she saw.

Crystabella's face, on the other hand, was a mask of pure and utter rage. Her eyes seemed to breathe fire, and she glared at the younger women with such a fierce loathing, that this might have been quite enough to send anyone running at this point.

Susannah however, for reasons entirely unknown, was very unable to run. She brought up her hands again, as if to keep the raging woman at bay, leaning back, yet standing still.

„You...", she breathed, her voice full of surprised terror, full of pain and terror. „You... are... not..."

„Silent, stupid girl!" Each word a hiss like slash of a whip, Susannah tumbling back at the mere force of it, cringing under the force of her opponent's voice. She fought for a second to stand, hands clenched into fists, nails burying into her own palms, but then, something within her gave in, cracked like a small branch in a storm.

Without a noise, without a fight, without a sound, Susannah Delanney sank to the floor, unconcious.

In the room next door, Leonora Halvery screamed.


	13. Go west

A/N: I have to excuse myself for the break I took. In fact, I did not have much time to write and I spent some time – which was not wasted I think – to develop the further storyline. Don't get me wrong, I know what happens, roughly, but to make a thread of scenes out of that is a completely different matter :D

Anyway, it has been done, at least partially, and we can go back to the story, meaning, that we are leaving Port Royal again to have a look at Tortuga, pirate port par excellence – and one of his most notorious inhabitants.

Lamminator: I don't know that TV show, but maybe it has not been shown in Germany so...

As for romance – I am trying. Truly. I would not have thought it would take that long to be able to drive forward this very part of the plot, but things have to happen, you know, and fate being cruel and all that... There will be a bit of W/E soon, but as for the rest... I decided to put in another scene not very far from here, hinting to what I have in mind concerning romance, though.It fitted quite nicely, in fact.

darklight03: I just love the dear Mrs. Halvery. She's so much fun to write. In contrary to Jack Sparrow – I know you like him, but I am by no means satisfied with the way I write him...

As for the gloves and the Norrington encounter – well, what do you think? (Did you notice, that wenn Susannah ran into him, she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself?)

So, have fun reading... and all that jazz

Love

Spirit

**Chapter 12:**

**Go west**

If there was any place on land, any place besides the overly precious and cherished _Black Pearl_, any place, where Captain Jack Sparrow felt himself at home, it would have been Tortuga. A comfortable home it was, where no questions were asked, and none were answered, where everyone knew his own way and no obligations were demanded that might have barred his way to wherever he wanted to go.

Well, no obligation was maybe not quite that close to the truth.

Of course, land meant people and people almost unavoidably led to trouble. Jack Sparrow knew very well, that there were places in Tortuga, where his face was not exactly a welcome sight.

Not, that he cared, though. In fact, if anything, it made the place even more of a home. The captain of the _Black Pearl_ was always one to put quite some considerations in his dealings with people, the few half-friendships he had formed, and betrayed several times, and the relationships that were much more intimate then that – carefully harboured enmities.

Not that any trouble was expected to be in the Rolling Barrel, one of the Tortuga inns, and, among other things, one of his regular haunts. Yet, he mused on second thought, the trouble thing was maybe not true. Trouble, in fact, was to be expected in the Rolling Barrel, but this trouble would not be necessarily connected with his own person.

A very homey place, so to speak.

And yet, Jack Sparrow could not help feeling gloomy of sorts. It was not a notion he was used to, in fact, gloominess, worry and regret, the three ugly sisters, were part of the glorious group of things he liked to see from afar, that is, from a comfortable place from which he could wave cordially at them without having to have any closer look.

And even now he was not sure, if any of the 'ugly sisters' had caught up with him, diffuse as his sentiments were in this hour. Maybe it was just a general uneasiness, a feeling of wrong, of worry, right outside his peripheral vision, that seemed to flee as he turned.

He normally would have just ignored it as he always did – what use was looking around and craning one's neck for specters while there was life and enjoyment at hand – but the notion did not flee as easily as he would have it.

Might well be, he mused absently, that his discomfort was due to the fact, that he was stuck here for maybe a week to come. Jack Sparrow did not like being stuck. But the _Black Pearl_, even though, compared to Commodore Norrington's _Dauntless_, seemingly unscathed after their fight, was still quite battered and badly in need of repair.

And still.

He could not help thinking that this maybe was not just all of it.

„Missing that governor's girl?"

Jack flinched, lifted his gaze that had been drifting lazily around the not-yet-full inn, to look at the unwelcome disturber to have Anamaria frown at him, bottle in her hand, and still, annoyingly sober.

„N' jealousy, luv." He was not drunk – at least not yet – but he had so gotten used to his slurred way of speech – as well as everyone around him, for that matter – that he hardly ever went without it. „You've sich a special place in me heart."

Anamaria scowled and took a seet, propping up her feet on one of the other chairs around. Her pose was distinctively comfortable, but her gaze was adamant.

„Aha", she answered, cooly, tipping her bottle towards Jack. „And so what's going on."

Jack grinned, leaning back.

„I'm enjoying nice comp'ny, that's what", he answered, and Anamaria rolled her eyes.

„Cut it out, will you?" She shook her head. „You've been acting kinda strange ever since that blasted navymen caught up with us. Regret for crashing him in the Malagui?"

„Ah, yes, of course." Jack surveyed his dirty fingernails casually. „Devastated. Wallowing in regret"

„You didn't strike me as being the type for this", Anamaria observed drily.

„There ar' lotta things ye don't know about me, luv", Jack Sparrow beckoned, but Anamaria just snorted.

„Just about as many things that I don't want to know about you, Jack."

„So why'd you come here to spoil my time?" Jack sounded somewhere near queasy, looking sorrowfully into his half-emptied bottle of rum.

„What I want to know is where we are going", Anamaria insisted, and Jack's face froze in an expression of disimproval. „When we are again leaving Tortuga, that is."

„Thinkin'bout whether is worth the stay", Jack concluded, and Anamaria took a quite casual swig.

„Maybe."

Jack sighed, deeply and unhappily.

„Me was thinkin' bout turning west. 'N have a look at the more asian shores. Rich place, y'know."

„Mh", Anamaria mused. „Sounds a bit inconcrete, doesn't it?"

Jack rolled his eyes.

„Anamaria, luv, where's ye sense of trust? Can't a pirate juss sail to th'horizon an not wonder, whas gonna be tomorrow? Isn't that th'idea of th'whole thing?"

„Depends", the mulatto woman mused casually. „On what you are planning, of course. People are getting restless. You'd better know."

Jack grimaced.

„Ah, no patience no one. Such a pity."

„And by the way, Jack?" He put on his most charming smile, lopsided, that is, leaning back in a not-quite-casual gesture. „What is it you tossed into the sea the day the Navy found us?"

For a moment, there was something in his eyes, in his face even, some sort of ill-concealed discomfort, a way, in which he stare at her, that told her more than words could have, that she struck home.

„Dunno what you mean", he tried to dodge the blow, but Anamaria was well beyound this.

„Come on, don't be daft, Jack. Gibbs told me about it. A strange thing, some triangle of glass or whatever. What was that?"

„A present from a love long gone." Jack smiled cleverly, clearly uncomfortable with the subject and Anamaria did not be a perceptive woman to sense that something was wrong. Jack Sparrow could be – at times – a very bad liar. Problem was more his changing of positions and opinions. During her dealings with him, Anamaria had bit by bit come to understand, that when it came to Jack Sparrow's promises, caution was no wrong way of action, even though reason sometimes told, that he indeed intended what he said.

But right now, he was clearly dodging fire.

„Jack", she scolded, but he just raised his shoulders in a gesture meant to be charming, that not fully executed his influence on her. She had become very cautious concerning him indeed.

Jack Sparrow did not tell her. He dodged, he avoided, tried charms as well as bluntness, and finally Anamaria gave up. She had no intention of trying to move a mountain, and after all, maybe there was much less behind it than it seemed. Or maybe not.

Still, even though Jack Sparrow was definitely nobody to be trusted, she had only the opportunities of leaving or staying, and circumstances brought Anamaria to stay. One could say what one wanted about Captain Jack Sparrow, his luck was almost to be called proverbial.

The _Black Pearl_, riding again on the luck of her infamous captain, set sail a bit more than a week later, filled from keel to mast with rum, food, and anything else the crew seemed fit to bring aboard, and when they slowly left the harbour, even though some of them looked back, there was nobody, who would have preferred the rocky shores of Tortuga over the endless freedom of the seas.

They sailed west for the better part of a week, Jack setting the course casually, not even trying to coax the speed out of the Pearl that he knew she was capable of. The whole trip did remind of a vacation, had there not been the strange uneasiness of the captain.

Anamaria and Gibbs agreed in that, silently first, then later, in words. There was something that bothered Captain Jack Sparrow, and it was plain to see, at least to those, who paid attention and who knew him well enough. But the Captaion remained his elusive, lofty self and both of the sailors abandoned hope to coax information out of him.

It took them two weeks before both of them understood, that their perception had indeed been true.

The fifteenth day of their voyage, Jack Sparrow, up to now notoriously sailing west, changed course towards the north, not even trying to give any explanation, despite Gibbs' apparent search for a reason. The crew was uneasy, wishing for a port to attack, for loot and adventure, but Jack did not even spend a minute trying to console the waves that had begun to crash high inside the system. It was on this day, that Gibbs', shaking his grey head sorrowfully, informed Anamaria, that if Sparrow continued in this way, he was directly steering towards another mutiny.

However, two days afterwards, there came land. First, there was mist, creeping over the waterline like white, tender fingers caressing the ship. And then, Limmick in the crows nest called out for he had spied shores, islands apparently, beyound the mist. Sparrow immediately hurried to the bowspring, watching as their destination approached.

There were islands, two islands, one very similar to the other, twins, both of them covered with deepest green jungle. They were not large, larger than an atoll, but smaller then those, that usually harbored the british trade ports. And indeed, as far as they could see, there were no signs of ships or any sentient life ahead.

Yet, the frozen expression on Jack Sparrow's face did not bode well at all.


	14. To shreds, they say

A/N: Another kind of 'explanatory' chapter. As it happens, the story is really nicely forming out, me getting new ideas by the minute… so there's still a lot to come and still a lot to do. And I promise you, the next chapters will see more story development :D

darklight03: Concerning Jack Sparrow: He doesn't? Well, that's a translation problem then, because in the german translation, he kind of… slurres the words, mingles them together. And it the last time I have seen POTC in English was when it was in the cinema, so… thanks for pointing out, I just tried to imitate what I remember from the german version.

As for the Islands, I would like to draw your attention to my description of the islands he is sailing to, and I would like you to think about whether this somehow sounds familiar…..

**Chapter 13**

**To shreds, they say**

Life was not easy if you were Maria Delanney.

Living in a small cottage at the rocky shore of the outskirts of Port Royal, earning her living by means of her craft, raising her difficult daughter on her own without the help of a husband or partner, she, on occasions, felt that fate had given her quite an unfair hand. Especially in the days after the Black Pearl attack on Port Royal, life seemed difficult, when she, gravely injured by a sword slash to her side, was unable to work and yet depending on money for medicine and care.

However, Maria Delanney was no woman to give in easily to melancholy. She had never been easy to despair and had always found a way to deal with the blows that fate had decided to place upon her shoulder.

The sea had taken her husband shortly after Susannah had been born. Maria now remembered him only dimly, a dashing navy soldier in his white-and-red uniform, a smile, that always seemed surprised in itself, the silent strength, that, for the first time since she had fled he father back in Limerick, promised her something remotely close to safety.

He had not cared that she was Irish. At the other end of the world, at any case, nobody in his right mind should make the difference between two islands in the north of Europe, but yet, most did, and it was an incredible relief to meet someone who would see Maria, and not the irish seamstress with the weird accent.

His behaviour had softened quite a lot of the prejudices of the townsfolk, apparently, a woman, that was worth a navyman's love was worth the town's respect. Three years of happiness had thrown off most of the hurt and hard feelings, and many more, living in Port Royal among the English, had softened her accent so it was hardly distinguishable.

When Jonathan had died, she had been devastated. She had grieved for six months, her small child her only comfort in a world of darkness.

Then, her practical sense had taken over. One of the few graces fate had shown her was, that she earned pity from the townsfolk instead of the already well-known contempt for the irish seamstress, and with a curious sense of wonder, Maria Delanney, coming out of her solitude, realized, that she had become, at least in part, English.

From then on, rolling up her sleeves, she had worked hard to remain in the favour of the townspeople, and up to now, she had managed. Thank heavens for Susannah, who, calm and confident, had never doubted that once old enough she would help her mother run her business. Given the current situation, she had held up herself admirably, taking over all of Maria's duties without complaint. She was quiet, but friendly, and from what Maria had heard, the customers felt comfortable in her unobtrusive presence.

There were times, when Maria worried for her daughter. She was, not introverted, but closed, did not mind to deal with people but hardly offered something of herself in return. She was having headaches often enough to deeply worry her mother and frequently did sleep neither calm nor well.

However, it was not in her character to complain unduly, and neither was it in Maria's. Mother and daughter had settled into a comfortable routine of companionship. They were quite alike, mother and daughter, both of them with rich, black curls and a narrow face, dark eyes and freckles on a pale skin, a strange combination Maria wagered came from the marriage of her red-headed father to her black-curled mother. There were times when Maria wondered, if she was imposing on Susannah too much. There was much responsibility on the girl's shoulders, and a lot of duty. She had grown a serious young lady, and if there had ever been something as interest from any of the young men in town, Maria had not heard of it, and Susannah had told nothing about her own inclinations. For the moment, she seemed quite satisfied to lead on her life as she had before.

**Maria had dragged herself** out that very afternoon this story first meets her, sitting on the bench by the sea and working in the laces that should once decorate the beautiful dress Susannah had outlined for the engagement ceremony of Elizabeth Swann. The girl was talented, that was certain, and Maria could hardly believe her luck, that the Delanneys had risen so high in the favour of the government family.

And thus she handled the precious lace with the utmost of care, not to disappoint the nobility, when she heard the clatter of hooves and the rolling of a carriage towards the street she lived in.

She raised her head, in mild interest first, since this was a road rarely travelled, especially by the nobility of Port Royal, then in concern, as there was no use denying where the carriage was headed – her home.

She got up gingerly, heavily leaning on the cane to receive the visitors, fighting down a sense of foreboding that let her stomach fall.

The carriage stopped right before her and, even as she was already half inclined to bow, a thousand thoughts swirling through her mind, none of them making sense, the door was open carefully to reveal a concerned-looking Will Turner, who first stepped out of the carriage, then turned back to something inside.

Only instants later, she saw, that it was her daughter, limbs hanging, her head rolling back as the young blacksmith's apprentice heaved her out of the carriage.

It was plain to see, that her daughter was very unconscious.

"Mrs. Delanney", he addressed her, when he turned, carrying Susannah. "Please, is there a place where she…"

"Is she dead?" The first words she was able to say, and they came out in an impolite rush. Turner shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his serious features.

"No. But she is unconscious."

Maria felt the prickle of relieved tears behind her eyes and fought it.

"What happened?" she asked, then, at one look from Turner, thought better of it and limped into the house to lead him the way to Susannah's bed.

"I don't honestly know", William Turner said, half an hour later, when he and Maria Delanney sat at Susannah's bedside, both sipping a cup of tea the seamstress had brought.

They knew each other, craftsmen of the town, ran across each other frequently and felt the good ease of long acquaintances.

Part of him regretted not having gone back to Elizabeth right away, but another part felt deeply sorry, for mother and daughter alike, and he felt the deep duty to help and explain. Besides, Elizabeth would have had his head, had he left before Susannah woke up. "She was with Lady Halvery, taking measures on her, when she apparently simply collapsed. Did she… feel ill in the morning?"

Maria Delanney frowned, then shook her head.

"If she did, she didn't tell me."

"Would she have?"

Will Turner looked from Susannah to her mother, who thoughtfully gazed into her cup of tea.

"Maybe not", she confessed, and William, knowing the serious nature of the young seamstress, nodded as if to himself.

"I thought as much." He placed a hand against his forehead and considered the matter for a moment, then voted for complete honesty. "According to Eliz… Miss Swann, she seemed preoccupied even before. And apparently she ran into a… heated conversation with Commodore Norrington."

Maria frowned.

"With the Commodore? I cannot imagine that, Mr. Turner. Did she do anything to anger him?"

She was at loss for words, and Will shrugged a trifle helplessly.

"Miss Swann was quite sure, that she had done nothing of that sort. It seems that the Commodore was in an extraordinary state of mind today."

Maria winced. This was a most unfortunate turn of events. Apparently, Susannah had managed to alienate Commodore Norrington in some unfanthomable, and Crystabella Halvery in a very fanthomable way. Her brow knitted in sorrow. Even though she easily caught headaches, Susannah had never been a fragile child. And she most definitely never yet had broken down somewhere, apparently in mid-step. Worryingly she put a hand on her daughter's forehead.

"Please give the governor and his guest my sincere apologies, Mr. Turner", she said, softly, as if not speaking to the young man, but to her daughter, who lay motionless, pale, between the sheets.

"I am sure, Mrs. Delanney, that no apology is necessary. In fact, Miss Swann asked me to assist you in anything you might need to restore the health of your daughter."

"That is kind, but I do not think that we will need it", Maria declined. She had taken the hand of her daughter between her own and wondered, absently, why today she had chosen not to wear any gloves. Susannah was peculiar about them, claiming, that they helped against her headaches. Maria could not help thinking – even though she had never quite understood why this worked and how Susannah had found out – that maybe, her daughter would not be in such a sorry state, had she worn gloves today.

Susannah stirred, softly first, definitely just a few instances later. Here lashes fluttered, and Will and Maria, sitting on either side of her bed, turned their attention towards her.

She seemed remarkably clear the moment she opened her eyes, watching her mother, then Will, intently, as she usually did. Then she smiled, a soft, tired smile that held an edge of sorrow.

"I am sorry."

"Do not worry yourself, dear." The relief was to be seen very clearly on her face. "You will be fine again in no time. Tell me, what happened?"

Susannah closed her eyes, tiredly. Her headaches had vanished, and had taken with them much of what had happened in the governor's mansion, leaving behind an uncertain blur of a man yelling at her

A man? The commodore? But this cannot be… why should he…

and an inexplicable sense of dread that she could not quite put her finger on. This time, unlike the day at the pier more then two weeks ago, she had the distinctive, annoying feeling that she was missing something.

"I don't know", she said weakly. "I was having the most dreadful of headaches…"

"You forgot your gloves, dear", Maria scolded gently and Susannah smiled in remorse.

"Apparently I did."

"You gave us quite a scare", William Turner prompted in and thus Susannah seemed to notice him, squinting her eyes as if in thought. "When Miss Halvery screamed we were with you in no time. But not even the Lady could tell, why you had just broken down."

Susannah nodded softly.

"Thank you, William."

There was some familiarity between the two, growing up as apprentices of the town's craftmen. There were not so many of them that they would have likely been missed. Seeing each other twice a week at the markets and sharing the toils and trials of apprenticeship surely formed a link.

However, William Turner, even though quite liking Susannah, had never really been friends with the elusive seamstress. For a moment, he wondered if there was anyone to call her friend at all.

"Mammah…", she turned to her mother again, swallowing hard. "Could you… bring me a glass of water, please?"

Mrs Delanney got up, nodding a gentle "Surely, Susannah", and left the room, while the young woman turned to William and spoke in a hurry.

"Tell me. What really happened?"

Feeling a bit bewildered, William Turner shrugged and spread his hands.

"Your guess, Susannah, is as good as mine. You had a heated conversation in the hall with Commodore Norrington, although Elizabeth has no idea what you were talking about. And then you went to Lady Halvery, and more or less lost conciousness on the spot."

"How odd…" Susannah mused distractedly and William showed her a lopsided grin.

"I would not exactly call this… odd", he confessed, but Susannah shook her head.

"William… I…" she turned towards him, her dark eyes intent. "I think something happened. Something… I don't understand." She sounded annoyed at that. "I think, Lady Halvery is a very, very dreadful woman."

William Turner frowned, wondering, whether it was the unwavering charismatical looks of Lady Halvery, that had already the second woman aflame in distrust for her, but while Elizabeth could maybe indulge in such behaviour, this did not look quite like Susannah at all.

"Why?" he asked and earned another shrug.

"I do not know. But there is something. Something I…"

The door reopened, revealing Maria and the glass of water. William Turner and Susannah Delanney exchanged a look full of questions, and devoid of answers, and then spoke of the whole thing no more.


	15. On the subtle influence of moonlight

A/N: I couldn't resist. I confess, that I truly enjoy writng angst, and rightnow, Norrington is doing such a good show of it. I mean, honestly, the man drew the short straw quite a number of times lately, this is supposed to be annoying, isn't it?

But as they say, it's always darkest before...

well, before it gets totally black...

Lamminator: I truly wanted to avoid the very cheesy motive of Susannah being 'very good friends' with Will, it kind of sounded... wrong. Cheesy, in fact :D

Besides, I figure, a good friendship just doesn't suit Susannah, she is too distant for that. In fact, while pondering her, I figured, that in her dealings with other people, she maybe is a little like Amelie, you know, Amelie Poulain from that french movie. Right down to the intent way of watching :D

Enjoy the next chapter

All the best

Spirit

**Chapter 14**

**On the subtle influence of moonlight**

It took ten days to get the_ Dauntless_ to be patched up together in the royal wharf, demanding the very best of skills of the carpenters and portsmen of the town.

During these days, the Commodore was rarely seen in town. Of course, he was still seen on his patrols, and his shape was the most feared sight among those, that were to work on the _Dauntless_. Apparently, however fast they were, they were not fast enough. But beyound his duty, he avoided the town, avoided people in general to stay in his hardly lived-in mansion.

Indeed, he hid.

It was a relief to feel the door closing in behind him, a lock securing his privacy, even though there was no one, neither servant nor subordinate, that would have dared to disturb him in this time. If the people in his surrounding had been cautious around him after his rejection by Elizabeth, after the ill-fated pursuit of Sparrow, they were downright avoiding him.

He was not sure, whether to cherish or condemn this behavior.

And so he spent his days in his study, bent over the sea charts contemplating the possible whereabouts of Jack Sparrow.

There were only a few ports where the _Pearl_ would be able to safely land – to be able to heal the scars that the _Dauntless'_ cannons had ripped – but none of them would be attacked lightly. As much as he would have wanted, at the moment, it was downright impossible to adress such ports as Tortuga or Alehoui, not with the fleet he had. Norrington had learned at a very early stage in his carreer, that, however condemnable a pirate's actions were, if cornered, most of them would stand quite a fight, and to attack a port such as Tortuga meant to have the whole lot of the inhabitants at your opposition. The memory of the lost soldiers still fresh in his mind, he would not dive into a fight bearing that many risks.

And, he reminded himself, attacking such a port meant to wage war not only on the pirates themselves. But on civilians.

Women.

Children.

He was not yet desperate enough to catch Sparrow, that he could just ignore this.

When his neck was hurting devlishly and standing bent over the charts no longer seemed an acceptable option, he sat back at his desk, composing letters upon letters, trying to explain the many failures of his, that had, in rapid succession, fallen upon him after years of reliable success.

It was not, that he had not experienced drawbacks during the last years. This would have been quite a bit optimistic, to be honest. There had been narrow escapes, lost soldiers, even the loss of one of the smaller ships, the _Enforcer_, during a heated exchange of shots with long-dead Craven Sillet, but the succession and severity of the incidents had been unlike anything he had ever had to endure.

He filled page upon page of the letters he had promised not to write, on the loss of the Interceptor, on the death of his soldiers, on the multiple escapes of Captain Jack Sparrow. But the words sounded hollow to him, failure stripped naked of all excuses, and the fire crackled as if in mock, when another of the paper sheets were added to the flames.

And yet, most of the time he spent contemplating, staring blankly out to the sea, wishing to be gone from his estate again, back on a ship, on a pursuit, on a purpose.

On a way to redeem himself.

The day of Elizabeth's rejection had been bitter, oh, so bitter, but there had been a soft hint of sweetness underneath, a day of yet unexplored freedom, a taste of something elusive that was all the more dangerous to him.

Treacherous and betraying this had been, and he would not give in to it a second time. So, with the sweetness tainted, there was only pain.

_Elizabeth... Elizabeth..._

At times, he put his head against the cold, unfeeling panels of his decorated study, whispering her name like a prayer into the void, but there was no answer, and none would ever be given. This defeat was the one he was determined to accept, for her sake, if nothing else.

And yet, it was maybe the one which hurt most of all.

And then, there was the unresolved matter of Miss Delanney. Now, after some consideration, he had remembered why her face had seemed vaguely familiar. He remembered himself standing in his new, not-quite-finished Commodore's uniform, the Irish seamstress twittering around him to make final adjustments, while her daughter was standing in a corner, watching with an intent that suggested her life depended on it. He had barely remarked her then.

After his first fury, fuelled by desperation and tiredness, had worn off, he had remained genuinely puzzled. He had seen enough fake innocence to last a lifetime, and the bewildered look in Miss Delanney's eyes did not match it. And so, the girl remained a mystery.

He had thought about going down to meet her, had even been on the step of his estate twice, to go down to the waterfront to the tailor's shop, but had always turned back for the lack of something adequate to say. To be honest, he was not sure, whether he was angry or disquieted at what she had done.

And so, this question, amidst all others, remained unanswered.

Had there been anyone to startle him out of his reverie, maybe he would have noticed the way he was getting caught up in the middle of trouble, trials and pains, but James Norrington did not have anyone to show him that generosity. A man preferring solitude by nature, he did not like to form bonds that seemed to personal, and his late involvment with Miss Elizabeth Swann had gone to prove he was quite right in that. And so, James Norrington fell deeper by the day.

When Gilette finally stepped by to report that the Dauntless would be ready to set sail in the morning, he felt like a prisoner going free for the first time after years of encagement. There was a small smile on his face, as he nodded, approval, hope maybe, and when at night, sleep would not come, he did not as usual turn towards his study but to the balcony instead.

It was not facing the sea alone but looked out towards the town, the blue water on his left, the town at his feet, the Governor's mansion on the slopes of the hill glittering in the moonlight towards his right. He lifted his head to gaze at the full moon, feeling a pang of regret and sorrow.

_So it has been a month already..._

He turned towards the estate as he had done so quite often in the past months, hoping to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth's slender form.

Even thinking her name was torture.

And still he looked, watched, as a lone figure stepped out onto the balcony of the residence, her movements resembling those of a sleepwalker. He could only see her in shadow, a white nightgown and long curls, and felt his stomach contract painfully. She stood at the railing for a moment, gazing out into the night sky, the fingers of her hand unconciously caressing the wood.

Norrington closed his eyes and took a deep steadying breath. He would have given anything to know, that in this moment, she was thinking of him, but he had never given in to delusions and would certainly not begin to do so now.

His eyes were clear when he reopened them, determined not to look back at the estate, and yet he failed, gazing to the balcony.

And froze in shock.

Elizabeth had mounted the railing, standing there, arms spread out in the moonlight. A wind took up, blowing her nightgown and her hair, that caught the moonlit silver, and in that instance he understood that it was not Elizabeth he was seeing.

The woman standing on Governor Swann's balcony had raven black hair.

Another second she stood there, a ghost bathed in moonlight, and then, she jumped down into the garden, fell silently without a scream, to topple over and find herself lying on the neatly-grimmed lawn.

Norrington gripped tighter the railing, his mouth half opened in a scream that was not uttered because he would not change anything. But the woman got back to her feet, scrambling, limping along towards the door of the estate.

And suddenly, without any concievable reason, she stopped. In mid-stride, she held her step, not even moving a single finger, a woman become a statue of marble and moonlight, and then, slowly, without the frantic determination of before, she turned, carefully walking back to the double doors of the estate.

With a frown, Norrington searched the surroundings of the mansion for any apparent reason for her change of mind and found it, on the very same balcony, that the strange figure had occupied only shortly before.

Another woman was standing there, fully dressed but her hair loose in the wind. He could not see her face, but the color of the hair suggested another set of black curls, and from her posture, she was looking at the girl in the garden. The way she held herself betrayed tension, as the girl in the garden had reached the door, opened it and entered the mansion.

The figure on the balcony turned, slowly, but determinedly, in his direction.

Norrington dove for the shadows of his room, not knowing why he prayed that she had not seen him.


	16. To fire and flame

A/N: A chapter, in which time passes, a plot is carried out, and many people die…

darklight03: patience, patience… Okay, I understand, that I have not given away so much yet (still I think, I have given away already quite a lot, but that is maybe because I know, where the hints are). You are probably right about the action, it seems to elude me in exchange for suspense, so I changed the category of the story, to be consequent. At any case, this story is supposed to be quite long, I confess. If this were a 10-chapter-story (which it isn't) I would maybe feel myself being at the beginning of chapter 3, so there are things, that have to happen, things, that will be seen… I am okay with copying Susannah by being discrete with informations (a bit of it here, a bit of it there), as long as the story is not boring… I hope it isn't… 'looks uncertain'

Anyway, action for you, and the next chapter will see Jack Sparrow, unless I change my mind :D

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Chapter 15**

**To fire and flame**

Norrington left the day afterwards, having decided that the nightly scene he had witnessed could not have been any other than a confrontation between Lady Halvery and her daughter Leonora, who, apparently, were staying as the Governor's guests for the time being. He did not think much on what he had seen, at any case, shoving aside disturbing thoughts he might have harboured for a much simpler, plainer and more understandable explanation – that Leonora Halvery was in temper and inventiveness, quite a match to Miss Swann, and that she had been planning for a little nightly escape, only to be stopped by her mother. In fact, he did not have much time for considerations, since the morning brought the tide, and the tide swept with her the glorious, triumphant Dauntless on her way to the open seas, to catch Sparrow and whatever other scoundrels might dare to cross the way of the Royal Navy.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Things calmed considerably after that in Port Royal. The town was awaiting the event of the year, the engagement of the Governor's daughter, but instead of the frantic buzz one would have expected, the town was remarkably quiet, mainly due to the strange circumstances surrounding the whole affair and the lack of information leaking out of the Governor's residence. In fact, considering the well-known temper of the young governor's daughter, things were extremely quiet.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Susannah recovered quickly. She was back on her feet the next day and doubled her efforts on the dress for young Miss Swann, as if to make up for the strange occurencies and the lost time. In one thing however, she remained adamant, no matter how much her mother would try and beseech her. She downright refused to continue to work on Lady Halvery's dress. Part of Susannah was mostly annoyed at what the thought of Lady Halvery produced in her. She was, however, unable to fight the terror that gripped her every time, she even crossed her mind, and she could not even imagine what she should do, were she to confront her again.

Maria, whilst somewhat dissatisfied, gave in and limped up to the residence by herself, to meet a very cordial and friendly woman, who, considering her age, still had the statue of a woman much younger. Maria could not grasp any reason for the aversion Susannah harboured against the Lady and Mrs. Halvery never uttered a hard word against her daughter. Quite to the contrary she showed a remarkable understanding in shoving aside Susannah's breakdown with just the slightest wave of her hand, declaring with a deep, rich laugh, that she also might have been imposing a bit too much upon the young seamstress.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

All in all, the situation seemed quite similar to that very moment so close to a storm, when suddenly every sound stops. The first forebodings of the coming wind have graced the land, taken much in their passage, but just prepared to come. That special moment, when all animals were silent, hiding from that which they felt and feared but could not yet name.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Commodore Norrington was gone for the better part of a week, when the storm hit. The night was pitch black, no moon or stars showing on the nightly sky. Port Royal had gone to sleep, save for the few lights that the watch on the fort had placed on the seaside wall to get a better view – not so much on what was outside, but on where they were walking.

In fact, these torches, helpful in assuring that none of them would misstep, were one of the reasons, why the disaster hit Port Royal with the force it did.

Commodore Norrington had never allowed the torches up on the walls. In fact, he had been adamant about it, knowing quite well, that the more light against the darkness you had around you, the less you could see in the blackened night. However, since yesterday, a soldier misstepped and only by the sheerest of luck did not crash upon the rocky shore but fell into the water to be able to swim out again, Captain Gilette had decided not to stand this chance again. In fact, he had had a very unpleasant conversation with the Governor concerning the safety of the soldiers, a conversation, in which Swann showed quite an uncharactaristic behaviour, if truth to be told.

However, he had complied, and thus, none of the soldiers patrolling saw the ship creeping nearer in the darkness.

The sails, though not black, were dirty and would not even have reflected the moonlight, had it been there at all. It had stopped at the port entrance, the crew bordering the small boats to land upon the shore, and softly, without so much as a sound, the crew drew nearer.

They did not bear a flag, but might as well have born one, if their captain would not have had a strange sens of improperness about this thought. And besides, nobody would have known what to make of the banner of two islands, one very much like to the other, and it would have been quite an odd banner indeed. And thus, even though Captain Theodore Almington would have had ample reason for such a signifier, he refused to give in to it.

But of course, this did not change the reasons for him sending his men to Port Royal.

There was not much left from the confident merchant's ship's crew, the month at sea having changed quite a lot of their demeanor, quite a lot of them. They had, if not in words, then in actions, indeed become pirates, following a whisper over the sea, and the whisper had brought them here, to the very heart of British power, but they were not afraid. Having passed through near death as they had before being rescued by the twin islands, there was not much that could give them a scare. And the whisper was very explicit on what had to be done.

Only seconds before they hit the shore, the port watch gave alarm. Benjamin Hilper had been the sole watch down at the pier today, and he managed to do three quick steps to the alarm bell, to reach out his hand and pull once, before a well-aimed dagger pierced his back.

He fell without any further sound.

And then, in Port Royal, all hell broke loose.

Captain Gilette was on his feet nearly the instance the bell was struck, throwing a coat over his shoulder, grabbing for his sword. There was no time for appearances. The bell had been struck only once, meaning, that young Hilper on the pier did not have the chance to strike a second time.

Which meant extremely bad news.

He ran up to the battlements of the fort, squinting down in the once dark city.

Things looked bad. Really bad.

Some of the houses closer to the waterfront were burning. Shadows, running through the streets, forced their way into different houses. Screams were heard, people in their nightclothes tumbled aimlessly through the streets.

A bunch of soldiers was already on their way down, weapons blank, and they would reach the town soon enough, but as he did a quick estimation on the number of enemies down there, he was sure their number would not suffice.

He ran, shouting orders as he did so, a crew of roughly two dozen following him, the men just as dishevelled as he was, hurrying down the steps to the fort to help the screaming civilians.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

William Turner raced out into the street, a sword in his hand, his gaze travelling wildly around him. There was the stench of smoke coming from somewhere, screams all around, a cacophony of fear and death. He swung around wildly, remembering the last time that Port Royal had been attacked by pirates, but all seemed to be calm at the Governor's residence. Apparently, the scoundrels had not made it up there yet. William Turner was very determined to ensure, that this stayed that way.

He turned back towards the center of the town, following the screams, keeping a tight grip on his sword. It was not long, before he met the first resistance of the day.

William Turner was a very good swordfighter. However, a struggle between the houses of a town, against a superiority, was nothing like a duel, with however many cheats there might be. The recent events had taught him enough to make a stand, but he realized soon, that if there were no people coming from the fort, he would be lucky to end up just unconscious, just like the time before.

Two pirates were chasing after a young woman, who fled crying through the streets and he stepped in. The two were not as shabby as he maybe would have expected, their weapons of fine craftsmanship, as he absently mused on first sight. His first blow, attempting to bring down the elder of them, a man of maybe fourty with watery blue eyes, was blocked almost effortlessly, and a cry of warning brought his attack to the attention of the younger man, whose black hair and dark eyes gave him a southern Europe look, as well.

He blocked the blow to come, dived to the right to shield himself from the second attacker by means of hiding behind the first, but the elder one had anticipated this and took a step aside to give his compagnon some room.

Will cursed silently. They knew, what they were doing.

He had a narrow escape blocking two other blows, then suddenly lurched forward towards the elder one as if to strike, yet his weapon shoving to the right, where the younger one was standing. He, in fact, did not anticipate the blow, and William felt his sword meet the yielding resistance of a human body, a strike made to fell.

The younger tumbled backwards and Will wheeled around at his fellow fighter, trying to drive him backwards with a series of quick strikes. But he realized, that the pirate had already taken the opportunity and run.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Susannah Delanney woke, seconds before the bell struck. Neither in this moment nor afterwards, even though she, in the light of the strange occurrences around her lately, gave the matter utmost thought afterwards. She was wide awake, which happened quite often actually, but was usually predecessed by a nightmare of sorts, or at least a vivid dream.

Today, however, there was nothing of that sort. Later, she came to the decision that it must have been some sort of sound, outside the house, an unskilful move by one of the pirates, that produced a sound which tore her out of sleep.

At any case, this was, what saved her life.

The four shadows, that had been, cloaked by darkness, creeping up towards the tailor's home and shop, moved very purposefully. Of course, the house presented an ideal target, so close to the waterfront, but still, the four of them were quite astray from their fellow pirates, and there was no denying, that they landed where they did on a very special errand.

The whisper on the wind had been oh so clear about it.

There is a tiny house, on the northern rim of town. It is built from the rocks of the island and has a sign of wood showing cord and needle. There is a seamstress who dwells in this house. Her curls are black, her skin is pale. It is her you seek. She must not last the night….

Once Skinner, Baldrey, Hampshire and Pincet had reached the front door of the Delanney's house, they abandoned all pretence of being quiet. It fell to Skinner, who was sturdy-built and quite large, to force his way through the door. It gave way with the loudest of cracks and admitted them to the shop.

They were surrounded by a maze of cloth, tables and items they could not even fanthom what they were for, but Pincet, with his keen eyes, spotted the stairs almost immediately in the dark. He shot for it, the others trailing behind. After the noise they had made coming in, now speed was everything.

The upper stories held four doors and they began to search the place, stumbling into a tiny, but orderly kitchen where the last embers of a fire were glowing through the night.

They found her in the next room, a woman with black curls and pale skin, staring in terror at the intruders. She had gotten to her feet at the noise, had reached no further then that, the candle in her hand trembling violently.

"Please", she whispered, lifting one hand in a gesture that was so painfully typical of the Delanney family, shaking her head in shock. "… Mercy…"

Her words however was no match for the call of the whisper and the thirst for blood however. And they showed her no mercy. None whatsoever. And thus, Maria Delanney learned of the wrath and cruelty her daughter had awakened in Crystabella Halvery. She learned it thoroughly, but nobody in the city was able to hear her scream.

When the four released her, there was not much left. She had stopped to breathe somewhere in the process, and none of the four, that stood on the sticky floor would have been able to say when the seamstress had truly died. They felt the rage seeping away, as the command was fulfilled, leaving the house again to join their comrades out in the streets of the city, not without taking what little Maria Delanney had saved, from her drawer and from the shop.

Had they searched the house further, maybe they would have wondered at the second bed, empty but still warm, in a room where the window stood open, flapping lightly in the wind.

And thus, Susannah Delanney's escape went unnoticed.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

She ran through the roads of the city without even the vaguest idea where she would turn. The world was aflame around her and shadows haunted the alleys of Port Royal. There were those, who tried to defend themselves, swords ore makeshift weapons at ready. But most of the citizens of Port Royal that she saw, fled the attackers that seemed to know no mercy.

Susannah felt reminded of the attack of the Black Pearl, and she did as she had done then, running through the city, trying to find a place to hide.

The smithy, she thought fleetingly, remembering young Turner's skill with the swords, yet doubtful, that he was still there, and not up on Swann's estate to protect Elizabeth.

So she just dove for a dark corner, pressing against the wall, her heart hammering in her chest, her breathing ragged.

She stood in a tiny alleyway, hidden behind barrels and between the barrel and the wall, she spied out onto the larger street of Port Royal, seeing things, that made her stomach turn and her sight blur with unshed tears.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

She whirled around to face a man, his face grimed with sweat and dirt, hungry eyes wandering over her, dressed only in her nightshirt, shivering in the cold. He was certainly part of the attacking band, a sword in his hand, his posture betraying power. A thousand thoughts swept through her mind, none of them staying as she trembled in fear.

"Such a nice poppet we have here, ain't it? Tell me, sweet, what am I to do with you?"

The fear was overwhelmed by a sense of white-smoldering panic. She trembled, at the edge of her mind, remembering being told of a very similar scene, a woman, hiding, being found, being cornered.

The words of Elizabeth Swann lingered.

"P…. parley…?" she whispered, uncertainty clouding her voice. The man standing before her frowned at her word, coming closer.

"Meaning what…?"

She trembled, turned away her head at the stench of his breath.

"Parley", she whispered, then, with more certainty, again. "Parley. The code. The pirate code."

He seemed genuinely puzzled for an instance, but then, a grin was forming on his features.

"Oh", he snickered. "I see. So you want to join us, don't you, sweet?"

She did not answer, and he drew forward his sword, touching her throat, producing just the tiniest of drops of blood. Susannah pressed into the wall behind her.

"Well, sweet, then it's my pleasure. Just come with me, will you?"

Susannah obeyed, trembling and doubting the wisdom of her actions. However, she was smart enough to realize, that for this moment, the words of Elizabeth Swann had probably bought her life. For whatever it was worth – because she had no idea what she were to do, once she was on the pirate ship.


	17. Standing at the lion's den

A/N: Here we go again. And tell me, what is it, that can inflict fear in the near invincible Captain Jack Sparrow?

Enjoy the next chapter

All the best

Spirit

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**Chapter 16**

**Standing at the lion's den**

"Jack, what the blazes are we doing here?"

Maroo was the first to openly loose patience. When the islands had come in sight, the crew of the Pearl had immediately thought of the possibility of plunder, of sneaking into a town and robbing its riches.

What they had gotten instead was a white beach, topped by endless jungles, that wound up the hill that was steep and rocky, yet fully covered with rich green. There had been unsatisfied murmurs, when they had gone into the boats to sail ashore, but now, on the sands of the beach, dissatisfaction threatened to break out openly.

Jack Sparrow had been anxiously watching his surroundings, then turned towards the dark-skinned sailor, whose long rasta curls were full of sand and salt.

"Well…", he said, leisurely, doing his best to look unconcerned. Gibbs and Anamaria however, standing aside, exchanged a worried look. Jack had been behaving quite strange during the whole voyage, and things had gotten worse by the minute. "We are standing on this charming little island, to do, what pirates usually do."

Maroo frowned, cocked his head.

"Aha?"

"Well, steal, rob, plunder, take all the goods an' be gone with them of course." Jack gave an impatient wave of his hand, turning back to survey the jungle.

"Here?" Maroo asked, disbelieving. Jack nodded.

"Of course. Why else would we be here?"

"Well, that's the question", Gibbs murmured to the Mulatto woman next to him and Anamaria snorted.

"One of these days, I'll beat the answer out of him, captain or not." The first mate grinned broadly.

"Tell when you do that, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

But for now, it was up to Maroo to confront the captain, even though the rest of the crew was watching with the utmost intent.

"Where will we find that in such a place?"

Jack tore his gaze from the jungle with a sigh that sounded final. He murmured something, then turned back to the others.

"This", he said, with grandeur, "my friends, are the Islands of Arraka."

He was met with puzzled stares, save Gibbs, who let out a little cough and took a step back, throwing suspicious gazes around.

"What does that mean?" Apparently Maroo had worked up his courage and was now determined to get some answers out of the elusive captain. Jack however, telling from the fact that he had turned back towards the seemingly endless green, was apparently reluctant to share any further information. Gibbs, on the other hand, was a completely different story.

"They say, these islands are cursed", he rasped. This gained him the full attention of the crew, and nobody saw the wince that for an instance travelled over Jack Sparrow's face. Anamaria, too, had whirled around to him.

"What do you mean?"

"The Islands of Arraka lie in the mist, far off every route and every group of islands. The native tribes that live here, cannibals, cruel fighters, live on the human flesh of those, who are careless enough to land on these shores. Dark rituals are carried out here, and the wind from Arraka never brings any good."

"This is dangerous", Anamaria admitted, gazing around herself with newfound respect for her surroundings. "But we have seen such before. This does not explain a curse, or where Jack wants to find his precious treasure." She glared over at the captain, who seemed to look for something in the shape of the islands, taking measure with his bare hands, one eye closed.

"They say, that the natives here guard things. Secrets. They say, there are caves within these hills that people enter and no one comes out again. They say, that there is something ancient, that lies buried beneath the hills. Something, that can steal your thoughts with just one single breath."

Silence fell over the crew, that looked at the old sailor with a mixture of disbelief, uneasiness and fear. Only the waves crashing the sand and the wind in the rustling palm trees broke the silence, that was nonetheless tangible.

"What a superstitious mumbo-jumbo."

Jack had apparently decided to be part of the discussion and sounded more than a trifle annoyed. Even though he had done nothing to dispel the magic of the strange story yet, the tension was tangibly leaving the group.

"I'll tell you what this really is." He grinned. "True, there are some quite nasty natives around. However, they think, that this island is a living, breathing being, that has to be tamed. And thus, all that they found, all that was washed ashore and all that was robbed from those, who landed here, has been sacrificed for their god." The golden teeth in his mouth were glittering as he grinned full of mischief. "Meaning, they were put into the caves."

The crew was obviously torn between glee and uneasiness. Too different were the stories of Gibbs and Jack, and too evident it seemed, that they held a common motive – the caves, which seemed all in once undesirable and very, very alluring.

"So what do you say?" Jack had regained his confidence, spreading out his arms. "Are we going to the caves?"

Anamaria squinted her eyes. She did not like the sound of this story, but she had never been one to back out. Jack was determined to go to the bottom of this, whatever it truly was, and she was curious and courageous enough to follow.

"Aye", she said, being the first in a row of affirmative shouts. Gibbs seemed a bit undecisive, but in the end, he agreed to go with the rest of the crew. The temptation of the sacrificed goods had apparently been just to tempting.

Jack, turning around to lead the way, made a face. This had been close, and he knew it. And, most definitely, Anamaria had not bought his story. Well, he had not expected her to. It was just so not like her.

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They moved through the jungle, cautiously and carefully. Each of them had spent quite enough time in the Caribbean to judge, that their surrounding, even if none of Gibbs' superstitious ramblings were true, was bound to be dangerous. The native tribes, though usually less well-armed then them, were known to be fierce fighters, profound knowledge of the terrain helped, as well as their sheer number.

In fact, the probability for them to pass undetected was dwindlingly small.

The jungle seemed to be full of noises, animals wandering around unseen, wind talking to the towering trees. The air was humid and heavy, all of them were soon covered in sweat as they scrambled uphill, passing rocks and deeps on their way, occasionally meeting a small runlet that trickled down from the highest parts of the island.

The rocky surface of the hills was scarred, no jungle could hide that. There were cliffs and rifts, caves and gorges, as if the history of this island were full of battles, that not even the stone itself could withstand.

Jack seemed to know his way around disquietingly well, mounting into the hills at first, then walking around the slopes, stopping at times to look pensievely at the profile of the landscape around him.

However, slowly, but deliberately, one after the other found signs, that they were, indeed, nearing a special place.

Anamaria was the first to see one of the rocks, that did not look as if some natural fate had put them where they were right now. Nestled between the roots of a towering tree, there was a block that showed the traces of human craftsmanship, fading signs, spirals, ornaments, that had been so torn by weather, wind and water that it was completely impossible to learn what decorations had been imprinted on the rock before.

After that, these sightings became more frequent. Traces of pictures on the slopes, bricks, cast off as if some giant child had just thrown them away. Finally, the remains of a pillar, crude and round, yet definitely a pillar, half hidden between the ferns and bushes of the jungle.

As they proceeded, the voices of animals seemed to dim, even the wind died down, a silence falling that could soon be gripped with bare hands. Not even the parrot seemed to be inclined to raise his voice to his surroundings, where so many relatives of his seemed to linger.

The atmosphere hung heavily on their shoulders.

Finally, they reached a cave, a vertical rift in the rocky wall, and apparently the goal of Jack's voyage. Around it, there were the decaying remains of a building, carved from the same stone that had formed the island, its purpose unfanthomable.

Only on second thought, Anamaria realized, that there was something odd about the rift. It was about four meters wide, yet it looked, as if it had not always been that large. When they neared, she was sure to see the tattered remains of wood and stone amidst the green at her feet. The opening looked battered, as if something from within had with great pressure

_Great pressure? What could have inflicted such a pressure that rock could burst?_

torn it open, spraying around rocks and whatever else had been in the way.

She looked over to Jack, but his expression was unfanthomable. It was, however, by no means calm or even relieved. Anamaria felt her stomach fall.

He turned around to his crew, placing a finger onto his lips.

„Quiet", he said, unnecessarily, for right now, nobody would have liked to utter an extra sound. The silence of the place lay heavily on all of them.

Virtually on tiptoes they slid forward, carefully, avoiding any of the rubbles. On some of the faces, it was plain to see, that they felt the eerie atmosphere of the place. As if something was watching them like a predator in the darkness.

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Inside, it was cool, the rock opening for a large cave before them. And all of them stood, in awe and fear.

The walls had been decorated with crude, but extensive drawings, ornaments, scenes, a collection of contours that was too numberous to be observed within the short time they had. However, the whole wall was scratched, as if giant claws had tried to destroy the pictures, slashes in rock and stone, torn and battered, speaking of unspeakable fury and undspeakable power. Anamaria shivered, as she beheld the destruction inflicted.

At the end of the cave however, where the rock narrowed again, there was a glittering pile, gold coins, treasures, unnumerable items of all origins, values, that called out for the soul of each of them. The pirates lurched forward as if they had been one single man, to grasp what lay there, cheers tearing the silence, excitation driving away every thought of danger that might have been there before.

Anamaria stayed behind, however, and so did Jack. He stared at something beyound the pile of gold, where a dark corridor led deeper into the mountain. And now, Anamaria was sure to see fear on his face.

„What is this place?"

She whispered, not to break the atmosphere of the place, even though the excited shouts of the pirates should have been loud enough to wake everything dormant three miles around.

This time, she got an answer, as Jack whispered, not even looking at her.

„A prison."


	18. Becoming Lindsey

A/N: Back again, and glad, that you are still out there, reading :D This is a chapter filled only with OCs, I fear. I hope you like it nonetheless :D

Laminator: You might be right. Even though I am not convinced that in this very universe, there is even a Davvy Jones... we are having Crystabella Halvery instead... sort of :D

darklight03: Well, of course I can't tell you what will happen to Jack Sparrow... :D He knows that he is in trouble, and you know very well he is not going down without a fight. As for Susannahs actions – well, she was in some kind of panic, and when she fled, she knew already she could not reach her mother any more. She left her mother the same way Elizabeth left her father in CotBP... just not thinking. As for running to Will and Elizabeth – she was, as I wrote, thinking about that, but, in my imagination of Port Royal, the governors mansion is somewhere up the hill, not exactly in the town, and quite on the opposite corner of where Susannah lives. She considered running to Will but figured he would be up the hill to protect Elizabeth. Besides, they are not that well befriended. Susannah is the kind of person to get along quite well with most and to befriend no one (as for yet). As for the fate of Susannah's mother, this chapter tells, what is important about it, the details are just... well... unpleasant.

Enjoy the next chapter

All the best

Spirit

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**Chapter 17**

**Becoming Lindsey**

Susannah had, through all of her life, been a rational girl of sorts. Those, who knew not much of her, would have mistaken her aloof manner as dreaminess, and it was such, of sorts, but still, those who knew her better, were at times surprised at the dry rationality she was able to show. She attacked every obstacle and task with the same, serious fierceness, that she showed when she watched the occurencies around herself. Her jokes and smiles were reserved for light occasions. She had never seen much lightness in life in general or in her tasks.

And thus it was, that even now, wedged between two pirates, who were steering the small boat back to the pirate ship hidden by darkness in the Port Royal harbour, facing three others who faced her with gazes that would have sent most maidens shivering, that there was a small part of her mind, observing and considering, just as if this new task were just another, stranger pattern to be stitched, another stranger, more extravagant dress to make.

Yes, she was painfully aware that she was only in her nightshirt, exposing more than she would ever want to, but this could be partially amended, crossing the arms before her breast, drawing together the cloth so it would conceal more and reveal less.

Yes, facing Port Royal, she could see that quite a lot of the city was burning, the soldiers from the fort arriving to late to take revenge for their scavaged town, while the pirates had taken on flight again. But there was nothing she could do about this, and as much as she avoided facing north for the fear of seeing her own home burning,

In her mind, possibilities chased one another, as she searched for an opening path, something, that would buy her survival for this day and well into the next. She replayed the words the pirates had uttered, again and again, stumbling ever over the same, strange thing: Why had her opponents been so strangely surprised at the word „Parley" that she had thrown at them? If asked, she would have been obliged to assume, that they had not heared the term yet.

Susannah was still wondering how she could turn this peculiar bit of information into an advantage for her side, when the other people in the boat began to speak. They had yet only exchanged very few information, mostly concerning herself, her two companions insisting she be brought before the captain, but the three others, silent in the port to be able to escape undetected, now apparently were unable to stay silent any longer.

„It worked!" one of them – it was the already cited Skinner, even though Susannah of course was unable to know this. „Was just as easy as stealing sweets from a kid." He sounded to be full of enthusiasm, bursting out with the power of his success.

„Ye sure?" one of Susannah's companions inquired, leaning forward and for a moment stopping to row.

„That's sure", another – Pincet – answered in a convinced manner. „Didn't stand a chance. She's dead and cold... or will be, in the morning."

There was laughter, then chuckling. Susannah kept her gaze down demurely, shooting around gazes only below half-lidded eyes.

„Sure ye got the right one?" Apparently Susannah's companion was of the suspicious kind, but Skinner would not be wavered.

„How many seamstresses with black hair that live in that cottage can a town have? We got her, right away, don't worry. She's dead, gone and cold."

And thus it was, that Susannah Delanney learned of the death of her mother. She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. They would have to come later. Because one thing was painfully clear from what she had heared. Were she to survive, it was absolutely vital that she did not go by the name of Susannah Delanney. Because, after the dreadfull feeling she had concerning Lady Halvery, she could not shake the idea, that it was not the death of her mother the pirates had sought to gain.

It was her own.

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The ship loomed over her like a dark shadow threatening. Mist was hanging around the sails, hiding the crow's nest from her view as the boat was steered alongside the ship. The name was carved in proud letters into the wood of the bow, the last ornament of the last letter merging with the figure of a woman with flowing her at the very bow of the ship.

„Mary of the seas" it read, and Susannah, ever observant despite, or even because of the situation, frowned at it curiously. This was a very odd name for a pirating ship.

Growing up in Port Royal had taught her a lot about ships. Even though she had never set foot on one, you did not live in the biggest british port in the caribbean without learning ever so few things about them. This was a sturdy-built one, solid, not too fast, but steady, made to withstand hard weather as well as long voyages, not unlike the big cargo vessels that often lay ashore in Port Royal. Maybe, she wondered, they had stolen it from some freight company.

She was brought aboard, treated not with respect, but also not with undue harshness. Awfully aware of the thin nightshirt she was wearing and the way it clung to her in the nightly breeze, she hardly dared to look around. It was clear that there was hunger in the eyes of many in the crew.

And Susannah, being inexplicably calm before, felt a sharp sting of fear.

She was brought before Theodore Almington, who was a man in his late fourties, a wig sitting on his head that was most definitely not a common appearance for a pirate captain. She got a glimpse of a cross pendant around his neck, and he was facing her with an expression, that could only be called badly masked confusion.

„Girelli, what is this?"

The pirate that had confronted Susannah in the streets of Port Royal, shrugged a bit helplessly.

„Found her in the streets. Said something about..." He had to think to remember the phrase. Another point showing Susannah that these were indeed very strange pirates. „Parley. And a... the code."

„I see..." Theodore Almington surveyed Susannah as if taking measure of her. „And what would your name be?"

She straightened, looking in his eye.

„Lindsey Harris", she lied, her voice catching only so slightly. She was trembling in the chill night breeze, her face pale, the lips slowly turning blue. It was awfully cold.

„Lindsey Harris", he repeated, clasping his hands behind his back. His manner was very unlike what she would have expected for a pirate. But then, Susannah was smarter then to expect all stories to be true. „And what would you want from me – us – that made you call Parley upon us?" His lips twitched ever so slightly, in a sort of humor, and there was a gleam in his eyes that she distinctly did not like. He strolled towards her, his broad form towering over her slender one, his lips and eyes thinning in distrust.

Susannahs mind was reeling. She had not really thought of anything to say yet, to new were the informations of this night. She made a quick estimation on the facts. Apparently, Crystabella Halvery had sent these men, these pirates, if they were such, not to wreak havoc to Port Royal, but to explicitly wipe out the one person that had apparently done something to anger – to endanger? - her. Meaning, that Port Royal, that any place, where that dreadful woman knew, where she was, was not a safe place for her to stay any more. But her choices were poor. Because the alternative was to try and gain help from the people Crystabella Halvery had explicitly ordered to kill her.

And yet – if she was lucky, Port Royal, Crystabella, would not realize that she was not dead, but gone for quite some time. Meaning, that maybe she had no reason to suspect her to be under her very nose, under the very crew she had somehow ordered to this destruction.

It looked like the best of possible chances. To live this day to come back another.

„I want to travel with you", she replied bluntly.

Almington raised an eyebrow, while Girelli in the back let out a cheer, that was quickly silenced by a frosty stare from the captain.

„And why is that so?"

Susannah thought quickly. Beseeching, she leaned forward to the captain, capturing him with her dark eyes.

„I am to be married", she pretended to confide in him. „My family is poor, but the old smith has taken a fancy in me. He is... the most dreadful man. I need to get away."

Almington stretched out his hand to thoughtfully touch the fine nightgown she was wearing. She shrank back at the touch and fought the trembling, that was not only because of the cold.

„This is a fine cloth for a poor woman, Lindsey."

Her heart missed a beat. She swallowed hard, her mind racing for an explanation.

„A present of his", she answered finally, trying to put all the spite she felt into her voice to direct it at someone else.

Almington thoughtfully scratched his neck.

„And tell me, Lindsey, why should we keep you?"

A very good question, she admitted, swallowing hard. This was the first time, that not only Susannah, but also Lindsey, who had just been born, was able to take herself a moment to think. Unlike the questions of her motivation and background, it was explicable if she had no answer to this one.

„I am learning quickly", she said, almost a pleading edge in her voice. „I.. can cook. Help you. Do whatever you have me do aboard the ship." Her heart was racing. She knew well, that she would either stay, or not leave this port alive in any direction. She was literally fighting for her survival here. „I can read."

Almington raised a hand to still her talk, silently pondering.

„This is a pirate ship, Lindsey", he said. „I am willing to take you in. But I cannot protect you aboard the ship. You must watch out for yourself. We never know, what kind of tasks may... present themselves." His voice was a mixture of regret and detached coolness. Her stomach went icy cold. Images tortured her, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Almington smiled, wanly.

„Scared, Lindsey? You should well be. Because this..." He came closer, his breath tickling her ear as she shivered helplessly. „... is no game. No game at all."

Susannah took a deep breath. Then she opened her eyes. She was trembling violently, but her voice was steady.

„I take the chance." It was not, as if she had much of a choice.

Almington grimaced.

„Well then. I will give you a shirt, and a pair of breeches. You cannot walk about like this. But then, it is up to you.

Susannah nodded, numbly. Right now, she desired for nothing more than a quiet place, to curl up and rest for an instance, and to cry, cry, cry herself helpless for the remainders of her life, that seemed to drift away further by the minute.

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Susannah began to doubt the wisdom of her decision almost immediately. Even though her mind rationally supplied, that this was her best option of survival, she very soon understood, that she might have stricken a very bad bargain.

It might have been worse though, had this been a real pirate ship. She had very soon understood, that the crew of this very vessel was into pirating business for quite a short time only, and whatever manners they had had before had not yet completely waned, and this apparently was the only reason, why nobody had laid hands on her up to now.

This did not shield her from the gazes, however. She had never in her life felt so tainted, and she just numbly found herself a spot, down in the crews quarters, where she culed up to cry silently, tears running down her stained cheeks, her black curls a loose mess around her face. Never in her life, Susannah Delanney had felt so lost and alone.

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Things did not improve during the days to come. She tried not to attract any attention, carried out the tasks that were given to her and otherwise stayed for herself. There were a few of them, who seemed to approach her in a friendly way, trying to put her at ease, and she tried to respond likewise, but every smile hurt deeply. She fell into a state of dull functionality, a mere shell of Susannah – of Lindsey, to be honest, and every word, every reaction beyound the mere drawing of breath, demanded a nearly inhuman effort.

There was grace in the fact, that at times, it made her forget. Part of her, that part, which was still working, was terrified, that Almington or any of the others would find out who she really was, that they had taken between her the wolf in the sheep's coat, or better, more accurate, the sheep in the wolf's coat, that amidst their crew was the woman they had set out to murder in the first place.

She could not help learning a lot about life at sea. She had never before boarded a ship, and everything was alien to her, from the strange code that directed behavior of the sailors to the parts of the ship, its maintenance and the way it found its course through the waters. She learned what she could, the part of her mind that was awake absorbing every knowledge she could. Because she knew, that she could not stay with the „Mary of the seas".

It took her five days to come back to a shadow of her usual, matter-of-fact self, and by that time she did not feel as lost as she had before on the ship. At least, she did not stumble over any ropes any more.

It was then, when she had begun to talk to some of the crew. Hampshire, whose first name proved to be Alexander, was especially open to her, whatever it was worth. Because the crew seemed to share a strange reluctance about talking where they came from, or what, exactly, had driven them to piracy. Becoming more bold as days went by, she found remnants of cargo, various goods filling part of the bottom of the ship, that could not be older than a few months.

She foudn some discarded cloth and took the chance to crudely sew some gloves, rubbing her hands raw on the ropes to have an explanation for wearing them. She still avoided Almington, and some of those, whose gazes followed her around the deck, no matter, how much she tried to disguise what she was beneath breeches and wide, billowing shirts. Still there were the long black curls, that got more unruly by the day, and still there was her tender figure, that could not disguise completely that she was, in fact, a woman.

Seven days after their departure of Port Royal, they saw land again. The sight was greeted with a cheer from the men, and Susannah, upon asking, learned, that this indeed was Tortuga.

She was filled, in equal measure, with anticipation and dread. From what she had been told, Tortuga would be just the place to disappear, to run and hide never to be found. However, it also was a dangerous place. A place which rules Susannah did not know. A place, in which she did not know, whether she could last.

Her chices, however, were poor. Her luck was unbelievable enough, that her identity had gone unnoticed up to now, and she was not inclined to play at it further. And her restraint was wavering, her ability to smile into the faces of those, who apparently had been responsible for the death of her mother.

Susannah decided, that nothing in Tortuga could be as dangerous to her as the crew of the „Mary of the seas".


	19. Devil's bargain

A/N: There and back again. Picking up a thread from quite some chapters ago, I think.

Enjoy it anyway

darklight03: Well, not all of the story happens in Port Royal, as you may already have noticed. And as for Susannah, believe me, it is very healthy for her, that certain people right now do NOT know, where she is. And beyound that, before she can do what she has to do, still much to learn she has :D

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**Chapter 18**

**Devil's bargain**

It took them a week to even remotely clear up the destruction left by the „Mary of the seas". Houses had burned down, and many had died, and at the end of the week, when all the deaths were counted and all the damage registered, it was clear, that Susannah Delanney had gone missing.

Nobody had missed her at first, her mother being lying dead in her room and her house being as faroff as it was. Only when she did not appear for the appointment she had made with Elizabeth Swann to make last adjustments for her engagement dress, it became clear that something had happened. Elizabeth had beseeched her father, who in turn had sent a seemingly overtaxed Captain Gilette to the seamstresses house. He returned with sad news indeed.

Elizabeth told Will about it, and they sat in silence, pondering all that had happened and where it might lead them.

„I wonder who it was", the governor's daughter said after a lengthy silence, in which Will had absently held her hand, lost in his own ponderings. „I wonder if Jack knows."

„I suppose he could give a good guess", William Turner answered, lowering his gaze to Elizabeth's delicate fingers that calmly lay in his calloused ones. Absently, he smiled at the wonder of the small gesture. „Do you think there was a reason?"

Elizabeth crept closer, her side brushing his.

„They would not attack Port Royal without a reason, would they?" She pressed her free hand against her temple. „It is heavily guarded and they know it."

„The Dauntless is gone, though", Will reminded her.

„You think they waited for the Commodore to leave?"

„I do not think anything, Elizabeth. All I do is wonder."

Slience fell between them, as the Governor's daughter rested her head on his shoulder. They had not seen each other very often during the last days. Will had spent his days in town, trying to clear up the rubble as best as he could. It had been bad. The stench of ash and worse still seemed to linger in his hair, even though he suspected that this was just his imagination running wildly, for Elizabeth had not even mentioned it, close as she was to him now. Many had died. The blow on the colony had been very hard.

Will Turner, even though hardened by the recent Isla de la Muerta adventure, had seen quite a lot of things he preferred not to have seen. The attackers acted as if in a frenzy. He had taken it upon himself to look at what remained of Maria Delanney, Susannah's mother, and it had not been pretty. Susannah herself, however, remained gone. She had apparently fled through her window, and this was, where her trace disappeared. Some claimed to have seen her at one place or other, but whether it was due to the chaos of the attack or some other circumstances he had not been able to find out.

He feared for her and her fate. How strange, that for the second time in a few months, a young lady vanished after a pirate attack. However, as things were, there would be nobody to set out after her. Especially, since it was not even certain she had been taken and not just been washed into the sea.

„How have things been up here?" Elizabeth had not come down to the town after the attack but stayed at her father's house, not out of free will, he was sure. It seemed to be part of the governor's campaign to have his daughter act more ladylike. At times, William wondered, what he wanted to archieve by that. And why Elizabeth even had agreed.

„Tense", the young woman admitted, uttering another small sigh. „My father... is very worried, I think."

„I imagine", William agreed. „Many people have died."

„I know", Elizabeth answered. „But this has happened before. And... no. I don't think that it's that alone. It is that Halvery woman. She is creeping around him all the time." There was a lot of spite in her voice, a lot of tension in her posture. Carefully, Will slipped an arm around her, tried to put a calming hand on her shoulder.

„Maybe she is trying to help him."

„Help him? I can count myself lucky if she's only out on her hunt for a very elligible widower."

Will stiffened, turning towards Elizabeth to face her.

„Are you serious?"

She plucked at her gloves, annoyedly and thoughtfully. Her mouth was formed to a small pout, and she looked utterly miserable.

„I don't know, Will. I wish I could seriously say I am not."

„Why do you think this?"

He was distressed at her sudden change of mood. Just as before, she sat on the small bench, but her face had gone from thoughtful to utterly unhappy. Distressed, he stood up from the bench to kneel before her, trying to bring her to look at him.

„I don't know. It's... the way she hels herself up around him. Glances. Words that don't mean anything. Just a... feeling."

„And this feeling tells you your father is... falling for her?"

William found this very difficult to believe. Of course, from a neutral point of view, considering her age, Crystabella Halvery was extremely beautiful, but he would never have thought the governor to be the kind of man to thus look for a second spring. A man of politics, and otherwise occupied by the care for Port Royal and the love for his daughter, he had never thought of his intentions in this direction. Apparently, neither had Elizabeth.

„I don't know. And if he is... it is.. creepy." She shook, entwining her fingers with Willl's. To his distress, he realized that they were trembling softly. „It is not as if they were sharing smiles."

Will frowned.

„What in your opinion are they sharing?"

She shrugged, at loss for words.

„Fear, maybe."

And this, William Turner had to admit, was incredibly odd.

„Can't you talk to him?" he asked. „You have always been on good terms with him, haven't you? Wouldn't he hear you out at least, Elizabeth?"

„I don't know. He seems.. withdrawn. Far away. I do not know, if he will listen. And I think this is also her doing."

He sighed, softly leaning his forehead against her knees while still holding her hands. The position was not a very comfortable one, but still, he cherished the closeness that had seemed impossible not very long ago.

„I think you should try. For yourself as well as for him."

Elizabeth nodded softly, carefully lifting one of her hands from his, her delicate fingers brushing alongside his temple. He looked up to meet her gaze, her smile, amidst the tears, that lingered in the corners of her eyes, and stood up, slowly, carefully, drawn by her hand and her gaze.

Their kiss was sweet and tender, a remnant of her sadness, and yet underlined with the fire of hers, that had caught his attention right in the beginning.

And for a sweet moment, he fell.

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Elizabeth went into her father's study without even bothering to knock. He had scolded her countless times for it, and she had ignored it – always once more, as Will would maybe say, that careful, admiring smile of his in his eyes, and today, she had decided, it was not a good day to start at propriety.

She had felt distictively better after her talk with Will, as she usually did. For the first time, she had uttered what she had been worrying about during the last week, when her father could be constantly found in the company of Crystabella, confidently talking among each other, the eyes of the woman intent and caring, and yet, with an undertone that reminded Elizabeth of a shark.

She had spent days wondering what had happened to Susannah Delanney when she was with her. True, Susannah had seemed quite beside herself during the day and especially after her encounter with Norrington, but from what Will had told her, she apparently did not remember anything that had happened with Lady Halvery. This, together with her notion that she was a "dreadful woman" made Elizabeth wonder what exactly she had encountered when she had entered Crystabella's room. At any case, this had heightened her suspicions concerning the Swann's houseguest even further. The governor's daughter knew the little seamstress to be an excellent observer concerning human nature.

However, an answer to this very question seemed elusive, completely out of reach, now that Susannah had disappeared without a trace, and Elizabeth was left to her own devices.

Always being more of a straightforward person, she had decided to take Will's advide and confront her father about her worries. Which was exactly what had brought her to his door, where she was standing at the moment.

Later, she wondered if he would have admitted her, had she, for once, knocked. He surely would not have – given the state he was in – unless she had given her name, but the question was interesting to think about, whether he would have indeed allowed her to come in.

However, this excursion into the mind of Whitherby Swann is idle, because his daughter, being so very Elizabeth, did indeed not knock but only storm into his office with her usual determination.

She found her father sitting at his table, his wig in some disorder, his whole posture bent and dreadfully looking like defeat. He held his face in his hands, and when he flinched, all but jumped up at her entrance, she saw in horror that his cheeks were wet.

"Father…", she whispered, terrified, and hurried towards him, took his hands in her own. She was mortified to feel that they were trembling.

Her father, even though he had never quite been able to tame his wild girl, had been the one constant in her life composed of moments, the one person who was utterly dependable, and even though they seldom were of the same opinion, she loved him unconditionally. Which was the reason why his current state went directly to her heart.

" Elizabeth", he said weakly, half-heartedly trying to adjust his wig, to force a smile on his face, and yet he was failing miserably.

"What is going on?"

"Nothing. Nothing of importance. Nothing you need to worry about my dear."

Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation.

"How can you say this? It is obviously important. Father, what is going on here?" She sounded every bit as worried, every bit as impationt as she was, and Governor Swann took a deep breath, as if to plunge.

"Things are afoot, Elizabeth."

She frowned, pulled up a chair to sit beside him, more confident than daughter, and yet glad that here was a chance at learning of his distress, and she felt a childish rush of pride that now it was her who was here, listening to him, and not Crystabella Halvery.

"Apparently, someone in the court is trying very hard to bring us into difficulties, my dear." His voice was nowhere near as measured as his words, trembling miserably as he fought for composure. Elizabeth turned her gaze from him to the papers lying on the table and went to get the topmost, without even asking permission.

She read the paper thoroughly, and her blood turned an icy cold.

Blackmail was an ugly word, more befitting for a pirate or a scoundrel, certainly not for a Lord of the Royal Court, and yet, nothing else was the letter she held in her hands. And it was her who was the pawn.

Lord Angus Graunteroy, distant relative of Commodore Norrington's second in command aboard the Dauntless, Charles Groves, had apparently gotten wind of the infamous Black Pearl disaster. And her very own involvement in it. He was, in plain words, threatening to have her arrested for piracy, unless Governor Swann would see to it, that Norrington was replaced by Charles Groves. He went even as far as proposing to have the Commodore hung for the very crime Elizabeth was also accused of – he assured backup for these actions in the royal court – but seemingly allowed Swann to do whatever he deemed appropriate in this case.

"This was never about Will", Elizabeth whispered. "This was about me, wasn't it?"

Swann sighed, lowering his gaze and nodding, seemingly defeated.

"What are you going to do?"

He shrugged, helplessly.

"I don't know, Elizabeth. I don't know. I cannot let this happen to you."

"But you surely will not sacrifice the Commodore", she prompted, looking at him with wide eyes, and when he did not respond, she added a meeker "will you…?"

"I would hate to do it, that is true."

"Hate to do it?" Elizabeth shook her head animately. She might not hold the Commodore in the same high regard he held her, but still she valued him, and beyound that, this affair deeply offended her sense of justice. "Hate to do it? You cannot be serious. This is Norrington we are talking about. The most capable pirate hunter these seas have seen. And besides, he trusts you. He trusts us. The only reason he let Sparrow go was for my sake. For my sake! I will not have it, that he has to do anything more 'for my sake'. He has done everything and all he could do to secure our lives here, and you are even considering…"

"I am well aware as to who and what Commodore Norrington is." Swann's voice had found its edge again, and he looked at his daughter angrily. "And as much as this may surprise you, I am by no means thrilled by the opportunities remaining."

He wrung his hands, thinking for a moment.

"There is still time", he said softly. "Yes, still time. I will think of something, Elizabeth." His voice had taken on a more sure quality, and Elizabeth marveled at mood change he had exhibited. "We still have friends. We do. I will find a way that keeps you both out of the line of fire. Believe me."

Elizabeth looked at him and was unsure, whether believing him would really be a wise course of action. And however much she tried, she just did not manage to ask, whether among the 'friends' he talked about, he also counted the ever present Crystabella Halvery.


	20. Purgation

A/N: What a chance. Through all that mess with today, I managed to upload another chapter. Good for you, because I will be leaving for my holidays tomorrow and there will no more new chapters for at least 11 days - do not forget me, I will surely be back with more candy :D

**Chapter 19:**

**Purgation**

Tortuga was the port of the free, the last resort of a world in the Caribbean, that seemed to retreat by the day, yet fought for its survival like a wild animal that had been dangerously hurt.

It was a predator, a city, that did not excuse any weaknesses or whims, that only respected what strength lay in one's gaze and demeanor, in one's hand and in one's mind.

Those, who permanently stayed here had adapted themselves to the constant presence of pirates and scoundrels, the brothels and taverns spreading out of the soil like weed, and the atmosphere of Tortuga brought about a kind of human being, that was at once ruthless and clever, knowing how to get, what it wanted and how to never, ever give in.

In short, Tortuga was a world of predators, dangerous and rough, the city itself only luring to swallow the unwary.

It was a city of dreams, Susannah idly thought when she walked through the streets of the town, her ever observant gaze wandering, a city of dreams of freedom, and a city, where these dreams shattered brutally, like delicate glass falling onto the rough surface of a rock. Dreams were not enough to win a war, and beneath the demeanor of glittering amusement, of laughter a bit to shrill and smiles a bit to cheery, there was a battle raging.

It was a city, where such as her were swallowed whole.

Escaping the crew of the "Mary of the seas" had been easier than she suspected, all of them getting lost in the delicious brawl that was Tortuga. She had even been given her part of the loot, some silver coins in her hand to make her day, before everyone seemed to rush off into different directions to enjoy whatever Tortuga had to offer.

The silver coins did not last for a long time. The first ones she spent for the week's rent of a small room, a dirty, shabby chamber with a rotting bed and not much else, disgusted at it and yet knowing fully well, that her money would not last for long.

She had made a poor choice in her lodgements however, and her manner of speech and her way of holding herself betrayed the civilized british manners right away, and, moreover, displayed painfully obviously that she had no idea whatsoever how to bear herself around the predator that was Tortuga.

And thus she awoke to her first dawn in Tortuga finding herself robbed.

She had vaguely been planning on trying to start her own, small business of tailoring here, without too much thinking about the hows and wheres, but this had become thoroughly difficult now, considering that she didn't own a needle.

But she had not given up on herself so soon. She had walked around the city in search for a tailor's shop, asking if they needed a helping hand. The seamstress, a fat woman significantly older than her mother had been, agreed grudgingly, and so Susannah found herself mending sailor's clothing and the pretty dresses of the Port Royal whores, sat amidst the stench of unwashed cloth and some other smells she did not particularly care to decipher.

Her mistress was rough, putting upon Susannah's shoulders as much work as she could, while she retreated bit by bit from the business, standing outside to call pleasantries – or what she thought they were – at bypassers, leaving Susannah to sit in the dim firelight, bent over her work with tired eyes.

When she left well after dusk on the third day without having finished her day's work, she apparently angered her mistress, being greeted with a resounding slap in her face for not fulfilling her duties the next morning. Her eyes burned, as well as her cheek, but she stayed silent for the lack of choices she had. She did not have any money left, and thus could not buy anything to eat, the meagre meal that her mistress had her cook at noon the only thing she ate during the day.

Her way home was torture, for even though she tried to stay in the shadow, her timid, careful step was soon found out by the more infamous inhabitants of Port Royal, and thus she had more than one narrow escape from a scoundrel or other, though she did not even want to think about what possible danger she had been in.

Susannah had never spent much thought on men or their view on her. It was not naturally in her character to be vain or flirtatious, and her work and care for her mother never seemed to bring a wedding into question. She had not considered it, but when, after escaping a tight fix in one of the back alleys that led to her tiny room, she thought about it, she had maybe already settled for becoming – no, indeed being – a spinster, that would spend her life sewing dresses for the nobility and commoners of Port Royal. Far as it now seemed, the prospect had never frightened her.

Her nights were troubled as she lay, listening to the sounds of the tavern below, the shouts and cheers from people in various stages of drunkenness, trying very hard not to think of the way that her life had suddenly changed, and trying even harder not to think of her mother, who now lay dead somewhere in their home in Port Royal, which would fall into decay, now, that there was no one to tend to it. And in a moment's revelation, Susannah understood, that there would be nobody to really miss her back home, that there was no one, who would notice her absence until she missed one appointment or other, and this thought filled her deeply with sadness and loneliness.

At the end of the first week, when her landlord impatiently asked for another week's pay, she found out, that the tailoress had never intended to give her cheap hand any money at all. Susannah, overwrought and angry, confronted her about it and was faced with the harsh strength of a woman, who all of her life had spent in Tortuga among the rough crew that were his inhabitants.

The tailoress drove her out of the shop, one slap in her face following the other, as she screamed at her, accusing her wildly of all the crimes she had never committed, and when she looked around to gain help from those, who had gathered to watch the scene, she only saw the hunger of those, who loved to see someone fall. The one or other strolled up to them, adding a kick to her side just because he could, pain wracking her body with every second. And thus she curled up in the middle of the streets as her former mistress attacked her, the strikes falling down on her like rain, and she cried, cried, until her cheeks were wet from the tears and smeared from the mud that filled the streets, and when she was finally left alone, everything hurt, and she was unable to move, unable to raise herself, because now, in this moment, she felt, that she had lost everything.

Susannah walked through the next week as if she were in a daze, later remembering very little of it. She stole what food she could get and wandered around the streets, curling up somewhere to sleep and hoping not to be bothered too much. Her eyes became large and her face haunted, the neat, schooled appearance she had so carefully harboured, falling into decay. The wounds she had gotten in her fight with the tailoress were not grave, but painful, and she took a long time to even remotely recover. She was, indeed, living rough, becoming one of the creatures of the underworld, that Tortuga was famous enough for. She was caught stealing food twice and beaten again, once feeling something snap painfully in her side. Breathing was difficult afterwards, and as she, in the evening again, found herself a place to stay, she for the first time considered the possibility that she might die here.

After the hurt came the fever, and later that day, she was not able to fight any more.

He was a sailor, a pirate maybe, and when later, she thought of him, not without a certain, maybe even sentimental, fondness, the only thing she really remembered about him were his eyes. He was someone driven beyond caring just like herself, but unlike Susannah, he had not become lamb, but wolf. He cornered her, attacking, and she was unable to stand a fight.

She tried to ward him off with her bare hands, meekly pushing against his chest, pain soaring through her side, but she was not able to, as he pressed her against the wall, and did not even find the strength within her to scream.

In a last resort, she tried to push her hands against his face, a desperate attempt, nothing more, but when she did so, a tremor shot through her, so that she first thought, she had lost the battle.

Her reaction, however, had a completely different reason.

Anthony Hollerby did not know, what had stopped him. He was barely conscious enough to understand what he was doing – rum soaring through his veins like a trumpet resounding, and there was not much between hurt, anger and bare need, that reached his mind. He had seen her, a certain untained prettiness about her, that triggered a memory he so wished to be gone, a memory of a face, beloved and dearly missed, dark eyes, dark curls, and an air of innocence that caught his breath.

He had been missing her for months, after courting her for so long, only to learn of her death during the harsh, English winter, and the ghost of what might have been held him in his grip strongly enough to bring himself beyond caring.

And yet, there was something peculiar in the eyes that stared at him, wide and in fear, as she tried to push him back, her icy cold hands touching his cheek, as she suddenly stopped in her efforts.

He halted as well, staring into her eyes, and over the rasping of his breath, heard her whisper, trembling, eerie, as tears were forming in her eyes.

"She is not dead…"

This threw him back, sobered him more effectively then any bucket of water would have.

"What?" he snapped, staring at her.

"She is in a house… green hills… she is crying." The peculiar eyes were hidden by long-lashed lids, tears welling out under them as if to mimick what she was saying. "She is missing you…"

He took her shoulders to shake her, his heart racing wildly at her careful words.

"What are you saying!"

With a cry, she opened her eyes again, pain etched into her features, and he realized two things at once. Her look was bewildered, wondering, and thoroughly not understanding, and she was evidently hurt.

She allowed him to lead her to a bunch of barrels, placing her atop one of them. She looked at him in wonder, unable to understand how they had gone from attack to care, but apparently she did not even dare to ask.

"You said she were not dead", he said softly. "How do you know?"

Susannah looked up at him, feeling oddly remembered of another man, saying the same words, but in a thoroughly different manner.

On the pier. Why did you say that? How could you know.

And thus, Susannah first learned of the extraordinary ability of hers to see beyond what met the eye.

"I do not know." Her voice trembled at the revelation, as she shook her head in shock. "I just know."

She looked at him, trying to remember what she did not, grasping for something so very elusive, like water slipping through her fingers. There was a remnant of sadness, of longing, so far away as if the memory….

She savoured the thought as it came, pieces finally falling into place

… belonged to somebody else…

"Tell me, where she is!"

There was so much pleading in his eyes, and she swallowed hard, as she shook her head. "I know nothing beyond what I told you", she answered, not even remembering, what she had said, and he closed his eyes at that, hurt flickering over his face.

"She was not unlike you", he then said, softly, as if confessing a great secret. "A noble woman, a daughter of the Lord. And how I loved her…" He placed his head upon his fist, fighting back tears, that came with the rum and the memory. "Her father did not agree, of course. But we fought for it, and finally he gave in…"

"What was her name?" Susannah asked, being caught by his story, still shaken by the sudden revelation of hers and thoroughly forgetting, how she had come to make the strange acquaintance of the man next to her.

"Elise", he whispered, as if the name were a prayer. "They told me she had died of a fever. I was not even able to…", he swallowed, hard, "to attend the burial, I was sent off to sea before that. I…" he broke of, his averted gaze seemingly told all the tale. Susannah had no trouble putting it together – the hurt, the loss of control, disgrace… Tortuga. The anatomy of a downfall.

"They lied to you", she said softly, putting her hand upon his arm. "And it is not to late."

He lifted her head, and it was plain to see, that he opened to something, that he had long since thought to be lost along the way.

Hope….

Susannah tried a smile and felt the wave consume her whole.


	21. A lesson of fencing

A/N: Back from the holidays, suntanned but otherwise unchanged. I had a lot of time to think of this story, though. The plot is more or less layed out, everything is clear now.

Hope you enjoy the show

darklight03: Sparrow for you – I feel more comfortable with him not after having thought about him a lot. As for Susannah on Tortuga – well I can safely say that she will not end up with 'that guy', he is, of course, on his quest for Elise and thus modestly sailing out of this story :D

As for the rest, I cloak myself in silence, as they say (Is there such a saying in english, btw?)

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**A lesson of fencing**

„Jack, I'm fed up with this."

The Pearl was softly rocking on the waves that rippled the sea between the twin islands. A soft mist had crept down from the mountains, blurring the horizon, that divided the world outside this place into sea and sky, both equally promising the freedom of the untouchables.

Jack Sparrow had always appreciated this fact. He had spent quite a lot of time in various briggs on various ships – his own, not to say, the least – but this had never led to him feeling truly and completely trapped. And so, he was surprised how much the door closing behind Anamaria's slender frame reminded him of the prison dor of Port Royal, all ways of escape gone. It was, all in all, not a feeling he overly cherished.

The mulatto woman eyed him under the brim of her hat that she had not cared to take off when entering. The sounds of the crew celebrating outside were muffled by the walls of Jack's cabin, and yet it seemed to come from another world, the cheerful sounds, unable to break through Jack's brooding.

Not that he looked as if he were brooding. In fact, he gave the perfect image of a man completely at peace with himself, sitting back in his chair, feet propped up on his table, sorftly rocking himself as he idly looked at his dirty hands.

„Oh, and a good evening to you, Anamaria. Isn't it great, the place I found us here?"

Anamaria however, was not fooled.

„Jack." Her voice was somewhere between beseeching and annoyed. „Jack, goddammit, listen to me." She placed herself on another chair, slapping her flat hand onto the table. „Stop this! All of it! Try to fool the crew if you need to, but tell me what this is all about, or I am off this ship the next port we come to!"

It was, Anamaria realized almost immediately, probably not the most efficient of threats. In fact, she was well aware, that it was very probable Jack saw in her maybe the most annoying crewmate, the one, he would be glad to be rid of.

To her surprise, he stared at her in that peculiar way of his, eyes wide, and face completely expressionless, for a second, two, three, before the world snapped into focus again and he shook his head, an impatient hand waving off any word Anamaria had said.

„Don't be silly, luv." It was weak considering this was Jack. Jack Sparrow. With an internal rush of satisfaction, Anamaria realized, that slowly, but determinedly, she was getting to him.

„Considering where we have been today, considering, what we have seen there, I am not sure yet who of us is the silly one. You knew where this cave was, and what it was."

„True to the first, dear, which is obvious, yet a huge, resounding no to the second, rest assured. I may have known – to our advantage – that this is a place where treasures can be found, but well..." He spread out his hands in a gesture of pure innocence. „I am a simple man... captain... pirate. Whatever."

Anamaria squinted her eyes. She was a cunning woman, and Jack knew this. She had traveled with him long enough to be able to see that he was not telling the truth, not telling the full truth at least, and this was not surprising, considering, that this was Jack Sparrow she was talking to. Wringing out information out of him was harder than pressing water from a stone. She had to trick him, had to rely on her own conclusions to coax answers out of him. Anamaria mentally counted off what she knew of this affair.

First and most basic point. Sparrow had not come to these islands by accident. He had been worried all through the way, and he had, among all the targets that might have presented themselves, very specificly sailed to Arraka.

Which was the first point to be considered. The question was – why?

His actions had made clear, that he had known where to find the cave and had been – as far as Anamaria was concerned, even though she admitted, that Jack Sparrow had been known to be quite the bluffer – certain or at least quite hopeful, that they would find a treasure there, meaning, that he had been there before, or that his past dealings had included intimate knowledge on the circumstances of the islands of Arraka.

Third point – he had said, that the cave on Arraka had been a prison. A prison for what he had not said, but the sheer size of the whole setup seemed fit to send shivers down her spine. Something seemed to have literally torn apart the entrance of the cave. The entrance – behind which lay the treasure.

This inevitably led to the conclusion that Jack had known – or at least suspected – that whatever had been captured inside the caves was gone for good.

One could think, that maybe this might have happened a long time ago. Indeed, many of the bricks outside the cave had been overgrown with moss and trees, but yet, those, that were closest to the entrance, had been fresh, the strong jungle vegetation not yet reclaiming the stone that had so brutally been cast amidst it. No, if Anamaria were to make a guess, then the scouring of this prison was of a very recent date.

Maybe, if she were to play devil's advocate – maybe Jack's strange moodiness coinceded with that very escape.

She squinted her eyes, her mind jumping from conclusion to conclusion, while Jack was still sitting there, looking too much at ease, his smile flashing towards her, trying to stop her from thinking and failing. Charming as Jack might be, he was not able to charm Anamaria out of her wits. She decided her thoughts were good enough to take a shot.

„How did you know it escaped?"

Wood on wood made a dry sound, not very loud and yet a hint to the loss of control of Jack Sparrow, as he sat up abruptly, his composure wavering for a moment. His expression of indifference was in place again only seconds later, but Anamaria had realized that the arrow had stuck. Deeply.

Satisfied, she leaned back to eye him leisurely, as if that very comment had not been the result of much thinking on her part, but instead something very obvious, that might have been plain for anyone to see. It was the natural game of Captain Jack Sparrow, but Anamaria had learned it well.

„What do you mean?"

„Oh come on, Jack, don't be dense." The silent scale had tipped in her favor and both knew it, but Jack tried to ward off the inevitable for another few seconds. She however was thoroughly fed up with the game.

„I've been there when it was locked in."

Anamaria squinted her eyes, digested this new piece of information. She dimly remembered the evening, when Jack's bad humor had begun, the evening, when Commodore Norrington had sought them out. There was something Gibbs had told her... something about Jack brooding and tossing something into the sea. He had not known what to make of it, but now, things were starting to make sense.

„And you had the key."

Again that look of shock, of discomfort, of wonder. Jack Sparrow again learned, that Anamaria was indeed a force to be reckoned with. She had gained the upper hand in this conversation and held it in an iron grip. He did his best to grin leisurely.

„Well... not exactly... the key. More like one of the keys."

Anamaria was not satisfied. Her response was dry, sarcastic and held a bite that she intentionally used to spice her words and show her annoyance.

„And you threw it into the ocean."

„Well..." Jack was the image of innocence, arms spread wide. Despite the discomfort of his situation, which was plain to see for those who knew him well, he had begun to swing in his chair again, but his left had gripped a bottle of rum, and he took a deep swallow before continuing to speak. „... it was broken anyway. No use keeping it."

„Just so that I understand you correctly, Jack. What kind of key?"

„Not much of a key", Jack confessed uneasily. „Some gimmick of metal and glass, whatever it really was. It was broken, so I figured it was no use any more."

„And you figured, that whatever it was the key to, was broken as well, right."

Anamaria seemed to skip over this hint for the unnatural as if it were nothing. The Carribbean was a place of many wonders, and her dealings with the ghost crew of the Black Pearl had moved her closer to anything beyound the veil than before. The cave in itself had already hinted, that it was, as sailors liked to put it, spooky.

„Well, yeah, sort of, luv", Jack confessed and took another swig. Anamaria leaned over to claim the bottle to herself to help herself to one as well. Jack seemed disappointed, but did not complain.

„And what was it?"

Now, that Anamaria had begun to go down the line, she was determined to pursue it to the very end. However, she was in for a disappointment.

„Frankly, I have no idea. It was her who asked me to guard that. As a price."

Her.

That might as well have been written in capital letters. No name was mentioned, no name needed to be mentioned. Anamaria knew, what he was talking about, and even though she had, dimly, maybe, in the hidden back regions of her mind, suspected that her name was connected to these events, she had not yet made this connection. Now, that he said it, however, it was obvious.

„So it was her who sealed the prison."

„Yeah", Sparrow confirmed. „An' gave me that key."

„And you took it? Just like that?"

„A little bargain between her and me." Again, Sparrow managed to look very pleased with himself. „I do her a favor, she does me a favor. As simple as that." Gold flashed, as he grinned. „You know, her and me, peas in a pod, remember?"

„Yeah, yeah." Anamaria had had enough of Jack's „peas-in-a-pod"-companionship to last her a lifetime – and well into the next. How like him to claim to be on good terms with someone as her. However, to say one were on good terms with her meant about the same thing as to say, that one was on good terms with the sea. One might like it, even enjoy it, but never, ever trust it.

The Carribbean bore many treacherous secrets, and she was the impersonation of all of them.

„And now you are afraid of what had escaped from there, hm?"

Jack snorted.

„No way. I'm terrified of what happens, when she finds out!"


	22. A question of necessity

A/N: Well, to make up for my long absence, there are two chapters at once. I hope the last and this chapter are starting to answer more questions than they pose. If not... well, bad luck ;-). It's not for lack of trying on my part.

Btw - I am starting to get more dissatisfied with my title for this story by the hour. Such a pity...

Love to all

Spirit

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**A question of necessity**

The hut was on the far side of the town, close to the seashore, where the waves lapped lazily at the riffs and rocks of the island. Dusk had fallen quickly, a pitch black curtain like a blanket over Tortuga, and yet there were torches everywhere, cries, laughters.

The place reminded her of a home that seemed so very far away, like a dream dreamt by somebody else, a memory, as uncertain as that of Elise, sitting in a garden, surrounded by green hills, and like her, she felt like crying, as an undestinctive sadness tugged at her breast.

The city was only a whisper away, and yet the little, dark alley seemed to be deserted, a place of danger like there were so many in the city of Tortuga. She was beyound caring however. She was unable to breathe without pain, and even though he tried to be gentle, tried not to hurt her, she was barely concious, when she reached the cottage.

When the pain receded, she found herself in a dimly lit room, a small cottage made mostly of wood. The furniture was sparse, an old, rancid bed that she was laying on, a chair, another, which had lost a leg, a scarred table, all of which had definitely seen better times.

She had been placed on the bed, the first she had seen in a time she could not exactly number, while Anthony – it was Anthony, right? - sat on the chair, watching her with a mixture of remorse and concern.

„This cottage is deserted", he said, softly, his speech slightly slurred from the remnants of the rum. He was not exactly acting like a drunk – the shock had been a good remedy to this – but it was plain to see that alcohol still was running like blood in his veins. „I have been staying here for weeks and no one came to claim it. Whoever owned it is gone."

Susannah blinked, trying to puzzle together what Anthony Hollerby was trying to tell her. Thinking was difficult, but she forced herself to turn her head, to fully face him. Words were on thing, the other was, what could be seen on somebody's face. Susannah was not so delusional, that she would have willingly abandoned this one strength. „I will be going for her, of course."

He avoided her gaze, looking towards the floor. Bad conciense, Susannah figured, something, which spoke for him, considering what he had tried to do. She nodded weakly.

„I thought as much."

Her voice was raspy, but steady. And the pieces were falling into place. In return for his actions, he was trying to provide her with a home.

„I cannot begin to say, how sorry I am. I... do not know. It pains me... I cannot imagine if I really... rest assured, that I..." He was babbling, not facing her, head propped in his hands, spilling out his guilt at her, and she found it hard to listen to him, tired and pained as she was. She lifted a hand to silence him, but it took his name, whispered with intensity, to have him shut up, to raise his head to look at her.

„You didn't", she said earnestly. „And this is what counts."

„Don't they say that it's the thought that counts?"

He looked into her eyes as if to try and find there some contradiction, but there was nothing, only observance, calm observance, and a lingering sadness, whose source he was unable to discern. He slid off his chair onto his knees, his fingers encircling Susannah's left, which lay limp and feeble on the dirty pillow.

„I... do not dare to ask your forgiveness. You have given me... something I would have never imagined, in return for something I... I... cannot even name."

„Then don't", she mouthed, but he did not notice, did not even try to decipher what she was saying him without words.

„I do not know, what I can do to make it up to you, to help you, but... I will do what I can. I will leave you this house, I will see to it, that they help you. And... if there is anything you would have me do... say so. I will only leave once I have earned your forgiveness... somehow..."

He stared into unmoving black eyes until she relieved him of her piercing gaze, closing her eyes tiredly.

„Tomorrow", she managed, with difficulty. „Sleep... please..."

It was not only that she was in pain. In the back of her mind, the revelation of her extraordinary talent was throbbing like a raw wound of another kind. And Susannah longed for oblivion, longed to flee this strange life and these strange circumstances, longed to forget and be forgotten, until she knew, how to deal with all these things that, once she would allow them to get to her, would scare her out of her wits.

* * *

_She dreamt of the sea, as if she were back on the „Mary of the seas", but she did not see the ship. She was traveling with the wind, over water, passing two islands hidden in the mist, because she did not dare to face them._

_And then she dreamt of lying in a bed, somebody staving her with a dagger in her side, again and again, a voice mumbling things she did not hear, one voice, two voices, one frantic, one annoyed, but she could not linger and the wave pulled her away._

_She dreamt of chains, unseen chains, and a voice, whispering on the wind like a caress, like a fever. It shook her and took her breath away, and she was screaming, but there was no sound to be heard._

_The eyes saved her. Dark eyes, dark face, and a peculiar feeling around her navel that made her gasp for air, and it filled her lungs, stilling a thirst she did not even know she had harbored_

_She dreamt of the eyes that burn, just like she did so often without ever remembering. Eyes, a hiss... don't listen to the snake, but the picture was fleeting, and so was the snake, elusive, and yet, she felt so utterly, utterly powerless._

_And then she was crying, tears of a sadness, that was not her own and yet shook her to the core, weeping for somebody, with somebody, and yet wishing that he would stop hurting so she could stop hurting, but the sea is endless and will never be conquered.

* * *

_

It was Anthony who later told her, that she had lain in fever for two days. He had called upon a doctor – or the closest thing to this that there was in Tortuga, an old native, his art being a dreadful mixture of the knowledge of the english and the wisdom of his ancestors, applying bandages and burning weed for the healing smoke of it, chanting old songs on her bed, and she had heard none of it.

Anthony claimed, that she had mumbled, cried even in her sleep, but even this she did not remember, when she woke, feeling not better, but at least less feverish, to a cloudy Tortuga morning. She was alone to wonder what had happened, to take a closer look at her surroundings and to marvel at the strange twists of fate. The cottage was indeed small, but seemed to be sturdy-built, even if falling into decay. It was small, mainly consisting of a large room on the floor and a chamber for storage up a ladder under the roof. The door, however, was quite well-made, and the lock seemed to be solid – a strong point in her favor. There was a heart in the wall opposite the bed that had obviously not been used in quite some time.

There were some fruits, some bread, a piece of meat, and even some clothes, all piled up on the table and the lone chair, and next to the hearth, she even found a bowl of water and tried to wash the remnants of sweat and dirt off her face. Immediately she felt better.

And then, she sat down on her bed, staring at her own hands, and considering the situation.

It began to make sense, actually. Her strange encounter with the Commodore – apparently, she had, just like with Anthony, blurted out something that he had not taken seriously, and yet maybe better should have. She could not remember seeing the disaster that had befallen Norrington and his crew, but apparently she had, and he had not taken her words seriously. Not that she blamed him, in his situation, she would have done nothing else.

Next, Crystabella Halvery. Even the name meant terror to her. She could not tell why, but it was clear, that something had happened, when she had been with her, and it had had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with her temporary discomfort of the headaches. She had seen something about Crystabella, and it must have been something powerful for her to black out. And she had said something, something so infinitely dangerous to whatever the spanish woman was planning, that she saw no other way but eliminating the seamstress, only by the sheerest of luck missing her target.

Susannah buried her head in her hands. The death of her mother came back to her in a great wave and she fought down tears, fought herself to think, to rationally consider, to understand, before she was able to grieve.

Port Royal was in danger. In a danger, that, of all people, only seemed evident to her. William Turner had told her of Elizabeth Swann's distrust of Lady Halvery – which might also put the Governor's daughter in a precarious position. But... what could she do? Did she even want to do something?

There was not much in Port Royal that still held interest for her. It had been her home, but she had never loved it, had been an outsider of her own free will, seperating herself, without even remebering why. There had been her mother, who was gone now, and a row of friendly aquaintances, none of which deep enough to have her dare to stand into the line of fire again. There was the distinct obligation to stand against evil, to help, when she could, but Susannah Delanney had never really considered entering the dealings of the world. She had well and truly settled for being an observer, and she was neither capable nor willing to put that aside. No, as things lay, she would have to find a possibility to settle, to build up a new life, here or elsewhere. Port Royal was not missing her, and she was left to her own devices.

Susannah did a quick estimation on what she could do. There was, of course, tailoring. She knew that she did sew well, however, her short excursion into the shopkeeper's world in Tortuga had taught her, that these were dangerous waters.

But what else was there to do? Tortuga was a port of scoundrels, what could she do to earn a living here? What was she prepared to do? Something was annoyingly tugging at the back of her mind.  
She remembered her mother, bent over a pile of cloth, the needle dancing in and out, in and out, a smile dancing at the edges of her mouth.

_„Considering he was a sailor, your father was a very rational man. I remember him scolding me for being a heathen celt, when he was sure that there was none to hear."_

Susannah smiled at the memory. Her father, judging by her mother's words, had been the epitome of british stiffness in public, but there had been another side to him, and sometimes she regretted never to have met him.

And her mother was right. Sailors were superstitios.

They believed in prophecies. In talismans. In old predictions. In fairies and klabautermen.

She lifted her head to look into the ashes of the hearth. Maybe this was the way to survive Tortuga. Her previous life had taught her a lot about human nature, and the stories of old from her mother provided her with an infinite treasure of memories, of stories, that could aptly be wrought into new myths, fit to earn herself a living, and beyound this, there was really something superstitious about her. It would not even be all a lie.

Susannah frowned. This plan included everything she usually did not like. She liked to observe, to learn about human nature, true enough, but she did not by nature share these opinions. In fact, she hardly ever shared anything, and she was satisfied with her life being that way. She would have to li. She would have to build up a reputation, meaning, that people were prone to notice her, to watch her.

In fact, the very thought of it terrified her. The fact of showing what she deemed was a very private thing to others made her heart thump. She was not sure, that she could do it.

But she was not sure either, that she had a choice. Susannah Delanney wanted to survive. And one of the main lessons that Maria Delanney had endlessly imposed upon her – ever vigiliant – daughter, was that bending towards necessity was not always a shame. The world around her was in motion, and she needed to move not to be swept away with the tide.

Susannah closed her eyes and came to a decision.

It seemed to her, that the people of Tortuga just yearned to be betrayed.


	23. A very strange trace

A/N: Okay. I changed this chapter. Sorry, but I like it better now

* * *

**Chapter 22**

**A very strange trace**

Nighttime was peaceful, for once, in Port Royal.

In silent calm, the waves of the sea licked the shores of the harbor and the coast alike, filling the nightly atmosphere with their own, special melody. Night, like a gentle, forgiving spirit, had covered the still so evident scars of the town with a blanket, leaving the town to be idyllic, unscathed. A native of Port Royal, familiar with the routines and surroundings, would have noticed, that the tide was high, yet receding, reaching its lowest point in the first hours of early morning. He would have been able to discern this time as being the aftermath for a pirate attack, since Lieutenant Gillette had doubled the forces atop the fort, the occasional light on the high perches betraying the presence of a watchful eye. Down at the harbor, there were additional lights, where Gilette had two groups of two patrolling, securing, that there would be no nasty surprises this time.

But the moon was full and the stars alight, and the possibility of any ship creeping into the harbor was very slim indeed.

And Port Royal slept, the shock slowly waning, mostly calm that night.

For an instance, the Lieutenant's gaze lingered on the dark spot, where he knew, the remnants of the Delanney house had stood, and not for the first time asked himself what had befallen the daughter of the house, who, as to yet, seemed to have vanished without a trace.

The days in the aftermath had been hellish, and the fury of the Governor had surpassed anything he would have normally expected from the civil, friendly, composed man. Gilette had been on the whole recieving end of it, and yet, he figured, that this was not the end to that story. Alsmost as violently as at himself, Swann had leashed out against the Commodore, for his absence and apparent lack of instruction of his subordinates. All the more reason for him to hope, that Norrington would return bearing good news concerning Sparrow. Port Royal and its situation had changed during the last weeks, and not for the better.

He had taken it upon himself to take part in the shifts, partly because of the impact it might have on the moral of the men, partly, because he refused to lie idle while he condemned his crew to the uncomfortable watch upon the high perches in the wind.

The city was sleeping in silence. The third watch was not far off, and Gilette looked forward to retreat to his own room, away from the stinging wind, but there was about half an hour left yet, and he let his gaze wander over the silent frames of the houses.

There was a single light, like that of a candle or a lantern, wandering through the governor's residence. For an instance, Gilette frowned, taken aback by the unusual sight, but slowly relaxed again. The light was burning in the governors study, wandering from one place to another, presumably from shelf to table and back again. This was not too strange a sight – the governor was not exactly known to be working into the night, but it had been known to happen nonetheless. Considering the strain he seemed under during the last weeks, this sight was maybe quite understandable.

The Lieutenant sighed and straightened his back, tiredly. It made him feel some sort of sympathy with his superior to know, that he, as well as himself, was kept up by duty during this night.

Gilette was wrong.

There was, indeed, a person wandering about in the gouvernor's study, taking the occasional map from the shelf, sitting back down at the great mahagoni table to skim through the papers, occasionally taking a closer look, occasionally putting aside a paper or two.

The restless visitor of the heart of Port Royal Government however, was not Witherby Swann, but instead, cloaked in a dark mantle over her white nightgown, his daughter Elizabeth, on her search for an explanation.

Ever since her last real conversation with her father, he had been avoiding her, become more reclusive by the day. There were things, that seemed to be lying heavily upon his shoulders, worries, that he barely seemed to contain, and Elizabeth could take only so much without leaping to action.

And thus she had decided to learn by herself, what her father's worries were made of, and this brought her to his study in the night, skimming through his notes, through his correspondencies, t learn, what had happened that had so changed her life.

It was difficult to make any sense of it. Elizabeth had never truly cared for her father's dealings with back home and thus, she was less than informed about most of the matters that the letters talked about. She shoved aside everything of earlier date, concentrating only on his correspondence from the tiem on since the desaster of the Black Pearl.

There was much, and not much that she liked. She came across the blackmail letter she had seen earlier, the one and only time that she had walked in on her father's distress, skimming it again, but unable to retrieve any further information. There were other letters, partly concerning Port Royal trade, partly very cordial letters from friends they had, throughout the Carribbean and beyound. She remembered his words as they talked in this very study.

We still have friends back home.

An attempt to secure alliances.

And finally, there were those letters, that told about something elusive, discomforting, that seemed to be there just beyound her grasp. She did not even know, how to put her finger on it, lacked the experience in reading between the carefully put lines to fully understand the way of escalation, that seemed to lie in the words themselves.

Elizabeth frowned.

Maybe her father's life in Port Royal had not be as calm and peaceful as she had always thought.

She had been quick to blame his current state of mind to the luring presence of Crystabella Halvery, whose soft, strangely unsuspicious words she distinctly did not like. But the letters spoke another language, just as clear as her dislike for the spanish women, and the picture they painted was not pretty.

She skimmed through another letter, stopping at the end. Even though the whole letter was set in very careful script, there was a postscriptum, as if scribbled later, more like a note than like an actual part of the letter. The words of the main message spoke of a common aquiantance the writer seemed to have with her father, warning in careful, yet masked words on the influence of the Spanish armada, that had begun to spread wider further in the south. The time of Cortez and the big gold rushes were over, but apparently the court feared the influence of the Spanish, who, feeding on the rich lands on the mainland in the west, seemed to be on the verge of swapping over into the english influence sphere. The writer insisted on the importance of Port Royal and its vigiliance, as a key pawn to this conflict.

Was there a war coming? A war beyound the fight against the pirates?

Her eyes lingered on the strange post scriptum, something tugging annoyedly at the back of her mind.

„_To understand the urgency of these occurrencies, dear friend, it may be enough to remind you that we are finding ourselfs in a quite precarious position. Even London might not be sure any more, you should remember, that in places, that are far from anything you might be able to eat, dangerous ideas always are afoot. And to remember, that all this was in our dear London, not even out there, where you are, close to – so to speak – the line of fire."_

This, Elizabeth Swann decided, made no sense at all.

The script was less careful, as if the post scriptum had been written as an afterthought, shortly before the letter had been sealed, and yet, the words seemed much to well set for a fleeting thought.

Frowning, the governor's daughter took out a sheet of paper and copied the words.

* * *

The morning sun was streaming into Elizabeth's palor, telling of a new, bright day, that still found her abed. She had feigned a headache, a very explicable female discomfort, to be able to look through her prey without further disturbance. Her father had made an impromptu visit shortly after learning that she felt sick, had, in a fleeting return of his usual, cordial manner, had a hot chocolate brought up to her, and she had almost regretted her plan to shut herself from his presence during this day, because for one moment, he seemed so much like her father of old, all hunted fear and reclusive manners receding. Her heart leaped out at her father, her dear father, but she was doing this for him, finally, and thus she remained, a pained expression set firmly on her face, a cold cloth on her forehead to cool an ache that was not there.

And then she was on her own, skimming through what she had copied, trying to form a picture.

She was no experienced politician, and in fact, was bored by the paperwork that was involved. More than once, she considered tossign the annoying stuff aside, but Elizabeth Swann was stubborn, and now, that she had decided to go to the bottom of this, she would not be moved.

It seemed, as if a new party had taken over control at his majesty's court, a party, to which most of the Swann's friends did most definitely not belong. There was a war raging between the lines, and with the thread of the spanish looming – how funny, that it should be the spanish, of all nations – the games had apparently become dangerous.

But again and again she returned to the strange post scriptum, that made no sense at all, and yet seemed to carry a strange meaning of its own.

„What does he mean?", she murmured, shaking her head. She had no idea what the writer was supposed to see in the lines. And yet it seemed to carry a meaning that was not prone to unraveling at a fleeting glance. Intentional, perhaps? Elizabeth Swann could not help the feeling that somebody was trying to give some information to her father that should not be seen at first glance.

But who?

And why?

* * *

When the sun was already setting, Elizabeth claimed to feel better and got up, eating a small meal the cook had provided her, while twisting and turning around the strange phrases in her head. She ate in silence without even looking at her food, and then decided, that she might as well leap to the nearest possible source of information.

The writer's name was Lord Charington, and she dimply remembered her father to once or twice talk about him. Yet, she could not exactly place his name.

His father had always, despite his manners, been a very organized man. He had very much wished for Elizabeth to find her way through the treacherous waters that was London society, even as far away from it as Port Royal was. And thus he had, very carefully, tried to tell her about the important persons at court.

Elizabeth had been thoroughly bored. Her father had, however, been adamant and shocked her with a detailed chart of names, places and relations to give her an idea as to whom to trust, who to avoid and of whom to ask old debts.

This was, where she now tried to find Lord Charington.

He was, as she soon saw, a quite distant acquaintance of her father's – a point which made his letter even more odd – a man of politics, yes, of ruthless opposition to the spanish, in fact. Her father, judging from his notes, did not like him very much. He was well off, his wife being, if distantly, related to the king, and he used his influence to mainly ensure the superiority of the british navy.

A navy man, she thought pensievely.

A man distrusting the spanish.

Not much news yet, indeed.

Beyound this, there was not much her father had noted tohim. She skimmed, with thorough disinterest, over the list of his relatives, decided, that it was not worth the effort considering she had no idea what she was looking for.

Frowning, she put the chart aside.

She was none the smarter, to be honest.


	24. A pose by yet another name

A/N: This actually took me some time to write, but there is the next turning point of the story, and if I continue at that rate, all of my secrets will be up soon...

Another thing – I am severely dissatisfied with the last chapter. If I find any way, I will rewrite it, change the riddle for another, because I just... don't think any more that this is really befitting...

It might take me another day, though

* * *

**Chapter 23**

**A pose by yet another name**

There were times during the week they spent together, when Susannah Delanney marveled at the depth of Anthony Hollerby's remorse at a deed that he had not even finished doing. And in this, he proved to be her salvation.

She learned, that he had spent roughly three months in Tortuga, long enough to make himself familiar with this predator of a place and its rules, enough, to either find his place or perish, and yet, also enough time for the venom that was the port to begin to run through his veins alongside with the human blood, slowly, but deliberately turning its unsuspecting prey into one of the ghosts that haunted Tortuga.

The poison had done its work thoroughly on Anthony Hollerby. Already not much of a person when he came here, drowing in pain, sorrow and remorse, there had been no difficulty to form him into one of the crowd, another, of the sorry figures that dwelled on the streets and in the taverns of Tortuga.

Susannah and him would, even though they, at first seriously, then, later, as some sort of private jest, quite often fought about it during this very week, never agree on what had saved him from this abyss.

Anthony, of course, would claim Susannah, her deed of stopping him, right in the middle of a very repulsive act with words he had never imagined to hear. She, however, would disagree, claiming that there was nothing she had really done to stop him. Instead, her explanation was his attachmet to Elise, to a woman he thought dead, but who, int he end, still held a firm claim over his heart that kept him from losing himself to Tortuga.

Maybe, as this happens so often, the truth lies in between.

However, Anthony Hollerby took his obligation seriously to promise to help Susannah in her first steps in Tortuga. All that she had done, had put her in a very unfortunate position, but now, she began to understand, what kind of people this city nourished, and what kind of people it fed on.

Susannah was a quick learner. And she desperately wanted to survive.

„You must never show a weakness, Miss Delanney", Anthony scolded softly, when she had told him, haltingly, of the circumstances that had led her to be in the situation he had found her in, penniless and hurt, in a back street of Tortuga. „This is not forgotten here."

He looked into her dark eyes, large, bewildered, and so very serious eyes. There was a sadness holding her in a death grip that he could not describe, and not for the first time he wondered what had driven her to Tortuga. And yet, under all this sadness, under the civil restraint that betrayed that she had, indeed, like him seen much better times, there was a hint of steel. For her sake, he tried to bring to the surface this hardness, which would maybe carry her through whatever time she decided to spend here.

„I see", she mused, her hands cradling a mug in her hands as she looked into the liquid pensievely. It was not rum, even though he had tried to offer her some, but she had rooted for tea. She was not as way down as that for now. „And my confronting the tailoress was too late."

„It was, I think", Anthony agreed. „I do not know much about her, but you seemed to give an impression to be someone, who is easy to take advantage of. So she did. If you intend to stay here, it is best you understand this, Miss Delanney. In this city, you are either sheep or lamb. You take, or you are taken. There is nothing in between it. I would... hate to find you on the wrong side of this line again. Are you... sure you want to stay here?"

Her gaze betrayed nothing of her thoughts, but she did not look into his eye, pursing her lips in a gesture he failed to interpret.

„I think it would be good, for the time being." The corner of her mouth twitched, sadly, maybe, bitter even – or only an outwarldly sign of any reasoning she had taken with herself that resulted in a conclusion he could not follow. „I... simply will have to learn to find my way here."  
Anthony sighed. He had suspected as much.

„You will have to decide on the role you want to play. You have to think about something, that will keep the predators away."

He placed his head in his hands, at loss for words, at loss for an idea, that might be able to keep delicate Susannah Delanney out of the line of fire.

„I have already", she answered, to his utter surprise. „I will be a seeress to them. A magic woman. A sorceress."

Hollerby squinted his eyes.

„Do you think that wise, Miss Delanney? If what you tell me is true, if.. what I saw is true, then you posess an extraordinary gift. A very extraordinary gift. I know nothing about it, do not get me wrong, and I cannot even imagine what you... see when this happens, but are you really intending to open yourself that much to the inhabitants of Tortuga? Do you really think you want to see... what you might?"

Susannah could not help shuddering. This whole city was full of secrets, most of them she did not want to unravel.

„No", she answered. „I will not. I will give them what they want – what they really want. Something to believe in."

Anthony nodded, pensievely, and felt a wave of sadness. That way of thinking, that kind of argument, it was so very... Tortuga. There was no use denying, that she was a quick learner. But there was also no use denying that the poison of the pirate city had already begun to take her into its clutches. And he felt a sadness for innocence falling into decay.

„This is a very strange idea", he acknowledged. „It might work, however. What would you have me do to help you start it?"

„I need some money", Susannah answered. „Some curtains, a new table. Cloth. A sewer's kit. Some extraordinary items, if you come across them. But above all, I need you to spread the word."

He frowned.

„What do you mean?"

There was the ghost of a smile on her lips, like the echo of something, that once had been honest.

„The rule of the craftsmen. A satisfied customer attracts further customers. Tell them about what I have done. Exaggerate a little, if you must. Anything, to make them believe I am what I claim to be. Make my reputation, because it is the only thing, that can sustain and protect me here."

Anthony Hollerby nodded, marvelling at the intellect of the young woman before him. She assaulted this new task as if it were just a work of craftsmenship, a problem with a solution. And yet, the hardness in her voice filled him with complete, and utter sadness.

* * *

A pose by yet another name.

Another blanked thrown over what she had been to reforge her, to turn her into something new. Like a chamaeleon, once more adapting to what her surroundings wanted to see in her. Gone the polite Susannah Delanney, withdrawn, but friendly, on good terms with all she knew and yet allowing her the utter luxury of loneliness, of keeping her own thoughts, her own person to herself, like the face of a bride hidden beneath a veil.

Gone Lindsey, defiant girl of Port Royal, longing for a piratey existance, hardly being able to wait, before she tossed herself into adventure and danger, away from something she feared back home.

She had become Lucilla, a name which she was sure nobody would take her for a real one. And yet in Tortuga, no one would care.

But still, in the middle of the night, sitting on the windowsill of her new home, gazing out into the ocean, she wondered, if there would ever be a time, when she were able to be just her, just Susannah, when she would be able to allow herself the utter luxury to find out who she really was.

The memory of her mother came back in waves, the agony of missing the one person that had always taken her for what she was, asking little and giving oh so much, and she cried, she cried, savouring the possibility to feel anything beyound the numbness that held her in a death grip, that forced the damn, cherished, useful, infuriating rationality to resurface, the rationality, which would have her survive, but which had never in her life before felt so out of place.

But she allowed her this weakness only during the night, when the stars above were the only witnesses, that beneath the haughty manner of Lucilla, under dark, khol-rimmed eyes and tangled locks, there still was Susannah Delanney of Port Royal, who once had a life of her own, contentment, and a life, that seemed so far away during these days.

At day, she forced herself into functionality with all the strength she had, and it helped not to wonder, what had happend to her mother during the last, dreadful moments of her existence, while she had fled on her useless way around the city. She had grieved, while the moon was in the sky. The day was dedicated to survival.

She had decorated the house, divided the small room into various portions by means of curtains, had built up a remarkable collection of items of different looks and origin, part of which she used to decorate the front room, where customers where admitted, part of which she had wound up into different charms, whcih she sold when demanded.

Seashells on a chain to always lead you back to the shores.

A bag with feathers to send out into the air to gain a favorable wind.

Small pearls and gems of no great value, but covered with a charm to appease an angry klabauterman.

A flask with the juice of the shiira-palm, as the natives used to call it, mixed with various spices to gain the favor of a particular lady.

Candles for impromptu rituals, shells and the houses of snails for tellign the future.

With a small smile, Susannah one morning realized, that she had, indeed, become a competent charlatan.

The beginning had been easier than she had thought. Anthony, before taking up his own quest, had kept to his word, had praised her and her abilities without any decent shame, and her estimation had been true.

They did not exactly rush her little hut, but the occasional customer stopped by, some of them timid and uneasy, some more demanding, and Susannah helped them best as she could, improvising her way through the various ailments of the population of Tortuga.

She was, in the first days, shocked, how run-down the town was. How many ruined shells of a human being dragged themselves through yet another day that Tortuga would see.

Susannah silently vowed to never again join their lines.

* * *

She had been playing the jester of the town for two weeks without any remarkable incident. In fact, things went much smoother than she would have expected. Susannah had always been good at estimating people's mind and intention, and to be honest, this was all she really needed.

When a sailor, none different than the others, scruffy-looking, his breath carrying the odor – no – the stench – of rum and too many days on this island, came to see her, she already made a quick estimation on who she had before him.

His attire was piratey, as they would say, old and worn, but he seemed to have at least made an effort to bring it into shape again. It was mostly clean, which spoke for his self-control, and his shoulders were hunched, as if he were afraid or at least unsure.

He looked tired, apparently not having slept well for quite some time.

She watched him, half-hidden by curtains, as he stepped into the room, taking in his appearance during these first, undisturbed moments, wondering what he came to search for.

He looked around himself, questioningly, and yet apparently not yet daring to call for her.

As if drawn to him by the question in his demeanor, she silently stepped out of her hiding place.

„You have come", she said, softly, trying to adapt a tone of detached friendlyness. He flinched, stared at her wide-eyedly for a moment, and she smiled at him, a careful, withdrawn smile.

She was acting, deliberately, and she still did not like it. However, she pushed uneasiness aside. This was not the time for it.

„Yes... yes... I have."

She had startled him, and that had been her intention. He looked at her, confused and unsure of what to do.

„Please. Sit."

He took a seat at the table, laden with different things that Susannah had picked up during the last days, and she sat across, hands folded before her.

„What do you ask?"

He seemed to muster his courage.

„I... have a question, Lucilla. About things I don't understand. About dreams I had."  
Dreams...

Her facade was holding – with effort.

„And you do not understand them."

He shrugged.

„Sorta." He fumbled with something in his pocket, bringing it out to hold it to Susannah. She saw a big ring, golden, decorated with a crest that faintly remembered her of something she could not find her finger on. A precious thing, no doubt, nothing for a woman to wear of course, not even in Tortuga, but certainly something of great value. „Will this do?"

She took the piece to examine it more closely. She was wearing gloves again, the metal was cold even through the thin cloth. It was a family ring, a crest upon it, and she did not particularly care to know how this particular piece had ended up with its present owner.

Thus, she did not ask.

It was not the first time she was paid in items, not money. She did not care. The first time had happened when Anthony had still been there, and he had shown her places to make money out of this. She nodded.

„It will do." She grasped for the ring, stoved it away in a little pocket at her hip. „Tell me, what worries you."

Now, that she had asked, he seemed prone to prolong the time it took for him to speak. And when he finally did commence to tell her, his voice was halting, as if he had to drag out every single memory by force alone. Susannah watched his ailing with a mixture of interest and confusion. As his words came tumbling out one by one, she felt distinctly more disquieted.

It might have shown in the frown on her face.

„I have been dreaming... dreaming of sailing towards an island... no... two islands. They are... misty... but the sky is clear... I am standing at the helm. And then, I am walking through a jungle, weapon at ready, and my heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. There is a voice that keeps calling to me, keeps pulling me."

He shuddered, avoiding his gaze from Susannahs intent ones. „I feel something grasping. I... I... know this feeling, somehow. Like the mist, all around, stretching its fingers to engulf me, to kill me, no, not kill me, but worse, to have me as its own. I cannot bear it. I keep dreamingof the different things I might do. I dream of entering a cave... there is such a big stone in front of it, and behind the stone is a door. I open it, sweet god in heaven, I open it, and there is hell behind it and I can do nothing but scream."

Susannah took out a bowl, for the show's sake, but also to give her time to consider. Something about his words were reaching her further then he should have.

Twin islands. Hidden in the mist...

She had dreamt of that, too.

She took a bit of oil as he fell silent, poured it into the bowl and had him shake it, getting him in touch with what she was working with, while she considered what she would do.

She could tell him of this strange companionship. But what would it help? She could not offer an explanation, was not sure, she even wanted to, considering the sense of dread that always was at her side, a constant, never wavering companion, when she had dreamt of this very specific image.

Susannah Delanney opted for the show. She might be forced to play a part, but she had always been one to thoroughly guard her own secrets.

She let a drop of dark liquid fall into the oil, watched the schemes and figures it formed inside it, her hands softly placed around the bowl.

„How long have you been dreaming about this?" she asked, seemingly distracted.

„It has been three months maybe", he mused. „Just when I...", there was the slightest of pauses, „.. returned here."

„I understand", Susannah said dreamily. „You are regretting something."

Seemingly, the pools and rivers in the oil told her his tale, because he flinched visibly.

„Why would you say that?"

She smiled knowingly.

„I can see it." Her eyes never left the bowl.

„Is it important?"

„A ghost is lingering with you", Susannah said, dragging her fingers through the oil. „His presence reaches out to you, but it is you, who brought this ghost with him."

She was not sure whether this was entirely untrue.

He seemed bewildered, but Susannah had many cures for those, who were ready to believe.

Later that evening, she sat on the front steps of her home, twisting and turning the ring in her fingers thoughtfully, wondering, where she knew the crest from. It was a cool night, a soft breeze had picked up to come from the seas and to tousle her dark curls. Susannah knew she looked very different now, windswept and battered.

She had tossed aside the gloves to give her hands some freedom, and the metal was cold in her hands, seemingly unwilling to be warmed by the soft fingers of Susannah.

There were things that the wind whispered.

At first, Susannah did not realize it. Her fits had always come in a large wave, sweeping her away with it and leaving only destruction in its wave, but now it came like a hunting cat, crouched low, footfalls soft. And even though, she was not even sure she would have been able to stop it when it came.

She let her mind wander, to the twin islands again, that her customer had talked of. An icy mist had the clothes cling to the bodies like wet towels, making garments and hearts heavy. And yet, it was a mist, that could be proudly sailed, for king and courage.

There was a soft frown of Susannah at that thought, but she did not care, letting herself fall, relaxed and carefree.

There was jungle on this islands, and one could climb it, with pounding heart albeit, just as her customer had spoken, and yet step by step, she neared the cave, the entrance, that she had known of, that he had been told. Fear was irrelevant for a soldier of the crown, and thus, there was no stopping before the sealed prison.

And then hell. Random images only. A voice screaming, Commodore, Commodore, and the pained eyes of a young native woman, her mouth forming a name she knew to be hers, and another word, a question, a why.

There was a whisper, stronger than herself, and she felt invaded, tainted, and could not help enjoy what she saw. Something lurched out at him/her, and he could not jump back from this very assault, tumbling, and as he fell, one last gaze to the ring, on his finger, slipping, falling, rolling, gone...

Before you die, you see the ring...

There was the sea behind the shilouette of the ring as it was lifted, and Susannah was left to ponder.

She remembered, this time, maybe because instead of being overwhelmed, had sought specifically to learn, and she was scared at what the outcome had been.

She had seen a troup going uphill, to some cave, and then something had happened, something had come upon them, and they had turned against each other, against themselves, against something they could see from afar, against...  
Susannah shook her head, thinking, not for the first time, that what Anthony had said to be a gift was more specificly a curse, a curse, in fact, she was not sure she wanted to have.

She did not want to face what she had seen.

For an instance, Susannah Delanney pondered, whether knowing would demand action. Whether that special ability of hers would ask of her to meddle, to become, to follow the words on the wind.

She wondered, were they visiting her or coming to bring her away?

She shoved aside the question for a moment, and turned towards another, pensievely watching the crest, now sure where she had seen it.

And wondered, thoroughly, by which strange twists of fate she had come to be in the possession of a ring that had belonged to somebody going by the name and crest of Norrington.


	25. Terror revealed

A/N: Now, there is the new chapter, and things are getting... worse.

darklight03: No, I can safely say it was neither Jack nor the Commodore, who gave Susannah the ring. I can, in addition to that, confirm, that neither of them will take long to step by on the pirate island... to pay the little seeress a respect... of sorts. The first one will be coming in the next chapter, I think... unless I change my mind about that

* * *

**Chapter 24**

**Terror revealed**

„Lieutenant Gillette!"

He turned, surprised at the voice calling out to him from the bottom of the stairs which led up to the high perches of the fort. The sun had risen behind a wall of clouds, but the day promised to be hot nonetheless, a humidity lying upon their shoulders, clinging clothes to sweat-soaked bodies and making every waking step an agony.

There were days when he hated it.

Of all the officers currently at Port Royal, Lieutenant Gillette was surely by far the one who felt least at home here. He had joined the Caribbean fleet for the same sake as almost everybody else – because of the glory, the money, the carreer, the order... and a dozen other reasons he could name if he wanted – but he would be counting the days, cheering each one past that brought him closer to homely shores.

He also was the only of the officers having left a family at home, which maybe explained all of it.

However, to sum it up, he had never been altogether fond of either carribbean sun or carribbean rain, and yet he could not deny that Elizabeth Swann, standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking up at him, a colorful spot against the grey walls around him, carried a certain beauty.

He could well understand the apparent attachment of the Commodore to her, and, like probably every soldier of the garrison, regretted the outcome of things, having wished the Commodore success in his dealings.

He had, however, always known that the young woman was, indeed, headstrong.

He wondered what it was, that brought her to him.

Being a polite man, he stepped down from the high perches to acknowledge her presence with a small bow.

„Miss Swann. What can I do for you?"

„May I have a moment?" she asked, her eyes squinted in a thoroughly questioning, thoroughly curious manner. There was something very unladylike in the way she watched him.

He bowed again, just the hint of it, actually and gestured her to follow him to step aside out of the full attention of anyone who might accidently look up at the fort.

„I have... heard, that you are fond of riddles."

How unelegant a way to put it, he thought. Indeed, Gillette harboured a hearty interest towards secrets and mindgames, playing a game of wits with two of the lower ranks by posing riddles and puzzles for the others to solve. He wondered, how it had come to her attention, and opted for Norrington, in the end. The Commodore knew of this particular interest of his and might have told it to Elizabeth. She was sure of her ground and there was nothing to do. He could – even on his best intentions – not deny what she was saying.

„That might not be too far off the mark", he agreed cautiously, and Elizabeth smiled.

„Well.. Lieutenant... I have..."

She seemed at loss for words for a moment, continued then, slightly embarassed.

„... I have been playing a game. With Will... Mr. Turner, I mean, actually. He has posed me a small riddle for me to solve, but... well, I cannot figure it out." He felt a smile creep on her face. This sounded very improper, and yet very much like Miss Swann. „I was wondering...", she continued, „ I know, you are a busy man. But if it would give you some joy, and... well, also to help me, I confess... I would be eternally grateful, were you to... just take a look at it."

Gillette was intrigued. He was well aware, that this might be a weakness, but this challenge seemed harmless enough.

„You are asking me to help you cheat in a game... of your fiancee and yours?"

She shrugged, apparently embarrassed.

„Well. Sort of."

Now his smile was genuine. There was something about Elizabeth Swann that made people like her.

„Well. I can take a look at it, but I will not promise anything."

She seemed thoroughly relieved, when he agreed to help her and handed him a small piece of paper which he read thoroughly.

„_To understand the urgency of these occurrencies, dear friend, it may be enough to remind you that we are finding ourselfs in a quite precarious position. Even London might not be sure any more, you should remember, that in places, that are far from anything you might be able to eat, dangerous ideas always are afoot. And to remember, that all this was in our dear London, not even out there, where you are, close to – so to speak – the line of fire."_

„This is a very weird riddle, if it even is one", Gillette mused, lookng into Elizabeth's expectant eyes. „And if this is a riddle, there is maybe more than just one thing hidden inside."

„I know.. it is weird. But... if it were a riddle. Would you be able, to finde something in it?"  
Norrington reread the paper, then thinking aloud.

„The clearest part would be what he meant my places, that are far from anything you might be able to eat... This at least seemes to point towards somethign specific, the rest seems to be rambling that is composed around the actual riddle... except maybe for the mention of London. That should be the core of these lines."

He took a moment before he continued.

„So we end up wit 'far from anything to eat' and London."

He frowned, pensievely.

„A place, in London, where there is nothing to eat... if should pose the actual riddle."  
„I don't think there is such a place", Elizabeth contradicted, frowning. „Poor places, yes, but I do not think he meant that."  
„So something metaphorical", Gillette concluded, still thinking. The idea came just by chance.

„When you are far from anything to eat, then you are hungry, right?"

Elizabeth nodded, a trifle confused.

„Maybe he means Hungerford."

„Hungerford...", she echoed, the name of a part of London city. Gillette was smiling, apparently glad to have solved a riddle, but she was still not much smarter. If the words of the Lieutenant were true, why would anyone go through so much trouble to give her father a hint to... Hungerford, London, of all places?

* * *

Two days passed before Elizabeth decided to take further actions. She had told Will of the whole story, of course, but he had been as clueless as her whether to take the message between the lines seriously, or whether they were just seeing specters. However, the odd influence Crystabella Halvery was quickly gaining with the governor was strangely correlated with the warning of the spanish in this message. The spanish, of all the things.

The two agreed that this was a bit too much of a coincidence.

They did not, however, want to know, what course of action this message demanded.

Chance presented Elizabeth with a possibility, these two days after her conversation with Lieutenant Gillette. She strolled through the garden at leisure, thoroughly bored and once more waiting for Will, when she saw, between two rhododendron bushes, her father softly conversing with Lady Halvery. They were standing close to each other, confidently exchanging words that were to low for her to hear. Elizabeth felt rage boiling at this sudden image of intimacy. She caught glances of Crystabella, who was half turned towards her, while she could only see her father's back, saw her beseeching, dark eyes, the way she caught his gaze again and again, her expression so earnest that it was painfully obvious that it was, indeed, not.

Elizabeth seethed with rage. She considered jumping out, yelling at her, spilling out her fury towards the woman that, so evidently, was destroying her life, her family, and much, that she cared for.

On second thought, however, she decided for a better course of action.

For thoroughly occupied as Crystabella Halvery seemed, she should be, indeed, completely unable to have an eye on her daughter. Which put her in the fortunate position of searching her out without her mother interfering.

There was even a small, sly smile, when she turned around towards the house. Sneaking, she had been taught by Captain Jack Sparrow, and a master teacher he had been.

She knew the room that her father had given to Leonora, one of the guest rooms that were sometimes occupied. When she had been little, she had loved the room for its view on the hills, but she had not been in there for a long time.

No one answered her polite knock, and Elizabeth, deciding that it was now or never, entered the room unbidden.

Leonora sat at the window, looking out into the hills without even seeming to acknowledge the presence of the Governor's daughter, who had come to search her out. Elizabeth drew nearer, softly, without understanding why she was walking on tiptoes, and spoke to her, when she was only a meter away.

„Leonora?"

She blinked, but did not react otherwise, her demeanor dreamy and detached. She was dressed nicely as if to go out, a beautiful, and expensive dress, the hair wound up at the top of her head, a rich, black mass of strands, stunning to behold, and yet, the scenery had the making of a doll, of a picture, very nice to the eye but completely bereft of life.

Elizabeth went to her, dared to put a hand upon her shoulder to gain her attention. She repeated her name, softly, and with slow motions, Leonora Halvery turned her head.

Her gaze was empty,as if she did not see the governor's daughter, even now, when she was standing directly before her. She blinked, frowned, but still to herself, while Elizabeth put a second hand onto her other shoulder.

There was something glimmering in the eyes of the spanish girl, some notion buried deep, and Elizabeth began to hope.

„Leonora", she repeated a third time, wondering, why she had the feeling of having to reach her within a deep well, even though they were standing close.

The frown deepened, she pursed her lips, opened them, as if to say, then closed it again. Elizabeth watched her carefully, trying to find out, what was going on with her.

And then, the spanish girl spoke, softly, her voice trembling, with intensity or strain, she could not tell which.

„Help me..."

The governor's daughter flared up at the plea, and yet stared at her surprisedly. Somewhere in Leonora's eyes, hidden before but now apparent, there was a battle raging.

„What..."

Elizabeth asked, but never managed to finish.

„Help me... Elizabeth. She is..."

Her eyes rolled back, her breath came in sharp gasps. She had startled to tremble, as if she fought some unseen force. Elizabeth felt a shiver run down her spine.

„... after your father", Leonora pressed out, more a hiss than words, gulping for air.

Elizabeth was not surprised, but still, she was shocked to hear it spoken, to have fear given form. Her thoughts chased, from the Lady to her father, to the very strange letter, and she decided to jump at the chance.

„What about Hungerford?"

Something stirred within Leonora, her hands clenching and unclenching.

„Market...", she rasped. „The house. Where..."

„What?" Elizabeth, having thought that it was a long shot indeed, leaned in to better hear her.

„There..." Leonora pressed out. „... died..."

Susannah shook her slightly.

„Who. Who died there? Leonora tell me?"

The spanish girl opened her eyes, wide, terror plainly etchend into her features.

„Run, Elizabeth."

The governor's daughter recoiled.

„What do you mean?"

„Coming... she... coming... run fast... help me... run... Hungerford... run..."

Leonora shook and trembled as in a fit – bitterly reminding Elizabeth of some of the harsher memories of the last days of her mother – blood and saliva trickling out of the corner of her lips.

„Run... coming..."

She toppled off the chair and fell to the floor.

Elizabeth, gripped with terror, did as she was told.

The door snapped shut behind her. Steps were coming across the corridor, steps too quick for what she would have thought Lady Halvery to be capable. But she did not wait for her to appear. Her heart pounding, she ran to the opposite side, hurried down the steps and across the kitchen, which was deserted at this time – thankfully – out the back door and through the gardens. Faintly, she considered going to her father, but she was afraid, way too much afraid of what she had seen of the trickery of Lady Halvery, for Leonora's state of mind was obviously her doing alone, and she could not bear to see her father this way, or – even worse – to have her turn down to the ghost of a spanish woman.

And thus she turned to the only safe haven in this town she still could imagine.

* * *

„Elizabeth! Oh my god!"

Will Turner stared at her, but only for a second, before he galvanized into action. Elizabeth had entered the forge completely disheveled, her dress dirty, her face streaked with tears, the hair windswept and unruly.

He had never loved her more dearly, and he had hardly ever felt more worried for her.

He hurried towards her, not minding that his hands were still dusty from work, that he was still wearing a leather apron to protect his simple clothing from the smoldering fires of the forge.

She did not midn either, apparently, for she threw herself into his arms, breathing heavily, and he enfolded her in an embrace, puzzled and concerned.

„What is going on, Elizabeth?" he whispered into her ear. „Tell me..."

He beseeched her, and Elizabeth, spirited as she was, recovered quickly, looking at him with fevered eyes.

„Will, I must leave", she breathed.

„What do you mean by leave? Leave where? And why?"

„Halvery", Elizabeth answered, then shaking her head.

„Will, I don't have time. I have to leave. For London, if I can."

He stared at her as if she had become completely mad.

„What are you saying."

„Will, please, please." She looked at him beseechingly. „The lady... at the residence. I have talked to Leonora. She is... oh my god, she is very, very dangerous. I do not know yet, but I have to find out. I have to save my father, Will."

Will Turner thought about this for only a moment. Then, he nodded.

„Very well." He turned, stepped into the neighboring room to retrieve some clothing.

„If we are to do this, you should better dress differently." He handed her a shirt and breeches, boots and a hat. She turned the small package in her hands, then nodded, numbly. She had known Will for a long time, but his unquestioning loyality never failed to amaze her. She tried a smile, found an answering one on his lips, and as she softly said „Thank you", his eyes lit up with fondness.

By a matter of minutes, they were on their way.


	26. Strangers in the light

A/N: Hah. The first hint onto what kind of romance I am heading to, but it is not going to be the only one, I promise. I know I took some time to upload it, but I really spent a lot of time writing it. This, again, just like „Unraveling Susannah" is one of the original chapters of the very first ideas of the storyline, one of the cornerstones, so to speak.

darklight03: Well, of course I can't possibly tell you what is wrong with Leonora... yet. But since you are so kindly reviewing, I will give you a hint. She is, in fact, not mentally unstable. Quite the opposite, indeed. She behaves the way she does because she is by nature a very strong young woman.

* * *

**Chapter 25**

**Strangers in the light**

It was, unlike what mostly everyone would have thought, not James Norrington's first visit to Tortuga. Faced with the exasperation of a decent Port Royal inhabitant at this totally improper and unexcusable behavior, he would have – had he even found the necessity to explain – been forced to point out, that one could hardly hunt and catch pirates without at least a minor knowledge of their whereabouts.

It had taken him some time, admittedly, to come to this conclusion. A young enthusiatic Lieutenant on his way from England, he would have shoved aside any proposition of trying to mix with the pirates he was hunting with a considerable amount of indignation. He had, of course, heard of the rumors of their hideouts, Tortuga being the most infameous of them, places, where no laws applied and the wretched mixed with the lost souls who had sacrificed honor and righteousness to the fickle dreams of fleeting desires.

He had lasted two years before the Carribbean taught him better.

His first visit there might well count among the worst experiences of his life, even with the fresh, new, painful memories around, and if he tried, not too hardly, he could still recall the shock, the repulse, the sorrow.

It was then, that he understood, that piracy was a lot more than just a bunch of scoundrels on a ship trying to rob merchants. It was a promise, like a golden peach glittering in the sun, but rotten inside, bitter to the taste, and the more bitter, the more you looked for sweetness in it. The hustle of Tortuga had swept him away, the sights, the sounds, the whores walking through the streets shouting after him – in his simple, yet clean clothes he was looking like a desirable customer – the drunk lying in the gutter, the screams that were too terrified, the laughs, that were too loud.

Beneath the glittering surface, there were a thousand demons, luring to swallow the unwary.

He had stumbled through the streets in a state of disoriented shock, unable to even take in his surroundings, but that evening, when he, like a defeated general after battle, crept back to the ship, that had lain anchor outside the harbor not to attract attention, he had vowed to himself not to have the rotten glitter overpower him a second time.

He had kept to his word. The next time he saw the necessity to visit Tortuga, when, indeed, he was looking for the man responsible for the desaster of the _Voyager_, he had steeled himself against what he knew were to come. And his contempt, his utter and deep hate, carried him through this time, and when he returned again, he was victorious, knowing, that it was indeed Harris Butcher, who was to blame, and, as an extra, he had found his hideout somewhere close to Isla de Vincence. This catch had earned him his captaincy, and James Norrington appreciated the irony, that to archieve this special promotion, he had to betray part of his standarts. As if every good thing came with a price...

And now he was back to the city of decay, back to the so much hated Tortuga, because, as much as he disliked to admit it, he had completely lost track of the whereabouts of Captain Jack Sparrow.

It seemed as if the Black Pearl had disappeared completely from the seas, and he had not heard any rumors or reports from any of the merchant ships around. There had been no report of a raid of a ship, and the seas had been remarkably quiet, as if after the apparent change in the captaincy of the Black Pearl, the whole Carribbean was still holding its breath, trying to figure out how exactly this change would affect their lives and the tender balance of powers, that was swaying all the time, but that was at least following some general rules.

It was midmorning, the Dauntless had once more anchored some bays away from Tortuga, where they had spent the night to then row over to the pirate city in the morning.

None of those, who called after him, stepped out of this way, shoved against him, would have recognized under the calm, confident man in the clothes a bit to simple for a pirate, the Commodore of Port Royal, who was feared amidst the pirates. There were many, he had already sent to the gallows.

Norrington was accompanied by one of his soldiers, a man born to the Carribbean and more familiar with the strange etiquette that seemed to be developing in the colony far off the home coast. They had spent some time in different taverns, trying to pick up rumors on Jack Sparrow, but to no avail as to yet. It seemed, as if Jack Sparrow indeed had vanished from the face of the earth.

* * *

The Tortuga market was hardly worth the expression. And yet, even here was a place, where fruits and groceries were sold, where those, who were able to earn a small, permanent living in this town, shopped, exchanged gossip and more significant news. This might not be the beating heart of Tortuga, but still, there was life here.

James Norrington was standing at the entrance of the market place, casually leaning against a wall. Albert Pourger, his companion on today's voyage, was already mixing with the crowd while he chose to observe, from afar, for the moment, the hustle before him.

„Oy, mate!"  
The boy had to call out three times before he even realized that it was him he was talking about. He turned his head, frowning slightly and adapting a more alert position, als a young boy of maybe seven hurried towards him. He was barefooted and clad in simple clothes, that had been mended carefully, but were stained with the remains of mud and other things, that he cared not to decipher. He guessed, that beneath the dirt, the hair must be blonde, however, he was not very sure. The boy looked at him with a grin on his face, holding out a clean cloth towards him. It was about the size of his palm and folded with care, and white – not brightly, but still, very much so for Tortuga standarts – the only stains apparently being due to the very untidy hands of the boy.

„'Cilla told my te give yeh dat", the young rambled, offering him the cloth.

Norrington lifted his head to look around, but he could not see anyone watching him in particular. It was, of course, completely out of question that he simply took something that was offered to him in a port such as Tortuga. Admittedly, word might have spread that he was looking for the Black Pearl, and even though such a question was highly unlikely to attract much attention, this maybe had provoked the strange approach.

James Norrington, however, was in no mood for any of this.

„Who?"

„Cilla." The boy gave a wave towards the marked that could mean everything and nothing, everybody and nobody, watching him intently. After an instant, Norrington realized, that he was expecting pay.

On an impulse, he slipped his hand into his pocket, took the item out of the dirty hands of the boy.

„What do you say to this. I will give you a shilling, and you will lead me to this... Cilla."

In response, the child stretched out his hand.

* * *

Cilla was, indeed, walking amidst the customers of the marked, and if she had any interest in how her gift had been accepted, she most certainly did not show it. She was strolling from one stand to the other, asking the occasional question, having the occasional exchange with one of the bypassers. There was something in the way she was treated that struck him as odd.

Judging from her posture and her voice, she was still young. He only saw her back, as she leisurely looked through the fruits of a merchant, taking a peach into her hand to test its ripeness.

She was dressed in men's clothes, a feat not too uncommon here, which did not make it any less improper in Norrington's eyes. Slender hips were unduly exposed, as well as thin legs, that usually would be hid by a billowing skirt. A mass of curls was floating down her back, tangled but clean, a round hat sitting on her head. Had she been a man, he would have thought her a farmer.

He coughed, politely, and she turned, revealing a pale, narrow face reigned by dark eyes and a small mouth, and there was nothing but a mild curiosity in her eyes. There was something about her, that seemed to reach out to him, something in her gaze to reach deep into his, to softly tread close to the unseen barriers around himself, like a whisper of the wind, a breeze, by no means capable of blowing away anything of substance, and yet dangerous, threatening, because it was the first breath after an eternity of silence, and it was deeply unsettling.

His heart quickened just a trifle and he took a deep breath, blinked to distance himself for an instance from her gaze, and when he opened his eyes again, there was just a girl, pretty and a little out of place in this surrounding, that was watching him with something between curiosity and apprehension. Looking down on her, he realized the peculiar fact, that she was wearing gloves, or – at the moment – a glove, to be precise. She had pulled off the right one, carrying it in her left, possibly to be able to better feel the peach.

He held out the package to her, wordlessly first, but she offered no explanation herself and just continued to watch him, the slightest question entering her eyes. Thus James Norrington, beginning to feel annoyed, took it upon himself to start this conversation.

„I do not take presents from the likes of you", he said, sharply, unable and unwilling to keep the edge out of his voice. Whether it was the unsettling notion that had gripped him when he had first looked upon her or the fact, that she was most definitely a pirate, or at least a pirate associate, he felt deeply unsettled. His polished manners reduced to a rudimentary skelleton, Norrington did not feel inclined to civility.

She lowered her gaze for a moment, but not quick enough for him to miss the peculiar expression that flittered over her face, a trace of hurt, of worry even maybe, and a sadness, that went deep down into her own heart. Part of him was regretting this hurt, but James Norrington, having decided to completely and thoroughly ban impulse and emotion out of his demeanor, kept himself in a tight grip.

The moment was gone again when she looked upon him once more. She did not speak, but slowly, determinedly, lifted her bare hand towards him.

Later, back on the ship, he should spend agonizing time on pondering, why he had allowed for her to touch him. But the bare truth was, that in this moment, something was hanging in the air like a magic spell, and there was something in her eyes that made him completely ignorant to what she was, in fact, doing.

Her touch was tender, her fingers cool and soft. In a movement, that in another time and place – and most definitely, with another man – could have been a caress, she closed his fingers around the cloth once more, her hand lingering upon his, even when he had, obediently, followed the movement.

„It was a gift", she said, her own voice not without an edge. There was a trace of hurt in her face, and much quiet determination. „Keep it, or toss it into the sea. I will not take it back."

She gave his hand a slight squeeze and then turned, walking through the crowd without looking back, as he stood transfixed, for just a second.

Then, he, indeed, turned towards the cloth, as his curiosity got the better part of him.

Softly, carefully, he unfolded the gift, slowly realizing, that there was something within it, something quite small, hidden like a pearl in a seashell.

When he saw what she had given him, he felt a shiver running down his spine, an involuntary tremor, that had him feel cold in spite of the afternoon sun.

„Father", he whispered, his voice wavering.

But when he looked up to find Cilla, she had already gone.

* * *

It was not difficult to find out on the whereabouts of the woman named Cilla. In matter of minutes, James Norrington, with no small help from Pourger, had found out, that she had moved to Tortuga, not so long ago, and that she, indeed, seemed to perform charlatanerie for the inhabitants of the town. He was described the way to the small cottage she inhabited, and indeed found her there, sitting in front of the house, staring out at the sea.

She reminded him of something, of someone, as she looked out, the hat gone, the wind in her hair, but he did not recognize the daughter of the seamstress, strange as her dealings in his proximity had been lately. Too different this young lady was from what he knew of Susannah Delanney.

„Lucilla", he adressed her, attracting her attention as she turned towards him. He was slightly out of breath because of his quick walk over to her, but she acknowledged his presence only by a polite nod and such it was up to him again to speak. „Where did you get this?"

„A customer brought it to me", she answered, the wind blowing single strands across her face. „I did not ask him, where he had it from."

„Who?"

That coaxed a small smile out of her, changing her from detached to shy in a twinkle of an eye.

„I do not, as a habit, ask their names and whereabouts."

Her speech was polished, civilized, very unlike Tortuga. James Norrington could not help asking himself what her story was.

„Why did you give it to me?"  
„It is yours", she answered simply, shrugging softly. „Is it not?" Norrington frowned, nodding despite himself.

„How did you know?"

Another small smile, but this time, she would not meet his eye.

„You are famous, also around here, hunter."

He cocked his head slightly, the feeling of wonderment increasing.

„Have we met?"

„Wouldn't we remember?"

Her voice was pensieve, dreamy.

„Yes", he agreed, carefully, and not fully convinced. „I think, we would..."

He turned his head back again to the ring, that now rested on his right hand, a family heirloom lost to the sea and refound by it.

„Why did you give it to me?" he asked, looking at her again. He was suspecting a trap, a bargain he had unknowlingly accepted, but she avoided his stare by again looking out to the sea, seemingly very, very far away.

„It is yours", she repeated again, with a shrug.

„Yes. But you could have sold it."

Lucilla nodded, agreeing.

„I could have. But I didn't."

„Why?"

She blinked, then turned towards him again. Her eyes had taken on a peculiar expression, a mixture of emotions among which annoyance was not the least.

„You will not get another answer, James Norrington", she said. „I found it and knew it was yours. And so I gave it to you. Accept it if you can. Forget it, if you can't. A wind of chance, of favor. Nothing more."

Her voice was lifeless, and it made him shiver. There was a storm, lurking somewhere deep, deep in her eyes, and part of him shrank back at it.

Another part of him longed to reach out to it. Like no other man, James Norrington knew how to cover pain with indifference. But he had been down that path, and too fresh were the recent wounds, that he even considered melting a breach in a carapace of ice, be it his own, or that of another.

And so he nodded, curtly, pressing out a thank between clenched teeth and left.

Susannah continued to stare at the sea.

* * *

He knew, that Groves was coming towards him, even before the polite cough. It was the middle of the night, and he was at sea again, standing at the bow of his ship, gazing out into the dark. His watch was over, Groves had come to replace him, but sleep continued to flee, and so he had given up treading this path to quest for longed oblivion.

As soon as he closed his eyes, there were images, a wild, mingling jumble of them, intertwined, distorted, memories, suppositions, securities and insecurities, faces and words, places and events. Maybe there was grace in the fact, that he could not sleep. The lord alone knew, what his dreams would be like.

He almost preferred the days before, where his waking and sleeping moments had only been haunted by Elizabeth's smile.

But now that was joined by the strange eyes of Lucilla, and the endless question as to what her motives had been, and memories of a much older nature.

A large manor in the english countryside. The rain was coming, from outside, in great waves, and he sat on the floor of the living room, a boy of seven, and kept wondering, wondering, why his mother had locked herself in her parlor, and the muffled sounds of crying were not only coming from there, but also from the kitchen, where the servants had apparently met.

He remembered being deeply unsettled that november day, when nobody would tell him what happened, when it was clear to see on everybody's face, that something terrible had broken into their comfortable routine.

It was the day word had reached them of the death of his father.

The ring with his family seal had been gone since then.

He turned, when Groves made himself heard, looking around to his subordinate.

„Is something the matter, Mister Groves?"

The officer hesitated, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture Norrington knew well enough, having adapted it more often than not himself. Apparently he was mustering up his courage to speak.

„This is what I wanted to ask, Commodore."

Norrington was on the verge of brushing him aside, of dropping a detached comment or two, that would, if not convince him of his peace of mind, then at least discourage his intention to pose another question, but something within him intervened before he even got that far. He hesitated, beginning to speak twice without uttering a sound, before he finally shrugged. His thoughts must have shown on his face, as Groves frowned concernedly.

„I do not know", Norrington said, finally, turning towards the sea again. Groves took this as an invitation. Maybe it was. None of them were sure about it.

Norrington looked down to his hands, one of them bearing the offending ring.

„I was offered... a gift... at Tortuga", he began, finally, deciding that a path half treaded was a waste of time and effort. Groves frowned.

„What kind of a gift?"

„I was offered", Norrington said, pointily, „the family seal of my father, that vanished, when he was taken by the sea, twenty years ago."

„Taken by the sea, or taken by pirates?"  
Norrington smiled, inwardly, relishing the bitterness of it. Apparently, Groves had spent too muhc time in the Carribbean, such as himself. Things were evident here, after a time.

„They never found out", he confessed, softly. „We never learned."

„But this might be the explanation", rationalized Groves. Maybe the one who gave you that ring was part of the pirate crew that sunk his ship. He was a Commodore as well, wasn't he?"

Norrington nodded, numbly, and did not mention, that at his disappearance, he had been just about the same age as himself at the moment.

„Maybe", he answered after some time being lost in thought. „Surely."

Something crept along his spine, like a shiver or a foreshadowing, a memory of dark eyes in a freckled face, as closed as a locked door, but something lurking beneath. „Though I cannot shake the notion, that there is more to it."

„Where did he vanish?"

„He was on his way south from here", remembered Norrington. „Chasing a spanish ship, as we were told. Somewhere in the southeast of here, I figured somewhere along the spanish coast, his target reappeared. They said something about being followed, but claimed to have escaped during a particularly vile storm. We never learned, whether this was true or not."

„Shall we go back to investigate?"

Groves was ready at his command, but Norrington shook his head, sadly perhaps. He knew of the impossibility of sailing near Tortuga in his own ship. But this was not the only reason for his denial.

„We have orders to carry out, Mister Groves. There is a pirate we need to capture."

„So we have a lead on Sparrow?"

There was a narrow smile on the commodore's face.

„We do. We will set sail in the morning."

Only when Groves had, again, excused himself, Commodore Norrington realized that Jack Sparrow had been seen in the exact area, in which his father, according to Navy reports had vanished.

Another strange occurence in a row of many. He closed his eyes and sighed.

There was no sleep to be found this night.


	27. By any means necessary

A/N: For those of you who still wonder, why exactly Crystabella Halvery is so creepy…

darklight03: I have been long pondering that point of Norrington recognizing Susannah or not. For the story, it is quite important he does not, of course, but I have given the matter a lot of thought. He knows Susannah to be – some weirdness aside – a decent, restrained young girl in proper english attire. The Lucilla he meets, is very much dressed up to look like what the average sailor would expect from a seeress, khol around her eyes, wild hair and all that. He does by no means expect her out here in Tortuga – he does not even know yet about the attack on Port Royal. And thus, I hope it is not toooo stretched, that he does, in fact, link the seeress not to the timid, strange tailoress of Port Royal…

bethlauria: Thanks for the compliment. There will, of course, be more Norrington. Not in this chapter, though, sadly. The chapter is not without significance for him, though. Just read and see.

* * *

**Chapter 26**

**By any means necessary**

From outside, the rain was pouring down in great waves. England, the homecountry of the inhabitants of the residence on the top of the hill, was said to be the country of rain, of the endless weeping of the skies. There were those, who, not without a little spite, would have remarked, that rain was a very befitting weather, that even the sky should cry at the sight of a country so stiff, so ambitious, and yet so fully unable to grasp what life, what wishes were really about.

The spanish had been especially good at maintaining that very notion.

Yet, no one, who claimed for England to be the country of rain, could have ever experienced the full carribbean pladder, that came down that very moment upon them. The sort of rain it was, that one could not penetrate for even the slightest time without being drenched. It came, noisy and in great waves, overwhelming, washing against the windows and blurring the sight on the beautiful bay of Port Royal. The water, anyway, would be a stormy gray, far from the blue of sunny days.

How befitting a weather for a day like this.

The fall of rain was a noisy affair, and it so conveniently hid the sounds coming from the governor's study. The cries. The mumbles. The bitter tears.

For the governor's daughter had left the town.

Swann sat at his table, head in his hands, and utter misery wrecked him as he sat there, sightlessly staring into the void beyound the windows, his eyesight blurred by tears and rain alike. He had not even cared to put on his wig, it lay discarded on the desk, not an image of status at the moment, but just some gray heap of hair, utterly useless and mocking.

Because whatever power it gave to him, it would not bring Elizabeth back to him.

It was, of course, as all knew, not the first time, that Elizabeth had vanished. But this time was different.

When the Black Pearl had taken her, there had been a lead, if even a small one, of her whereabouts, and there had been Commodore Norrington, calm, confident, battle-hardened Commodore Norrington, to go out and find her.

Now, she had vanished into thin air, and the Turner boy with her, with no lead, not a single hint of her whereabouts or her goals, or any reason at all.

And Gilette, though not uncapable, was no match for the Commodore.

He had ordered three of the remaining smaller ships of Port Royal to go out and look for the Governor's daughter, however, without any hint as to where she had gone, they were prone to guesswork, and this was not very promising indeed.

So it was in a state of devastation, that Crystabella Halvery that day found Governor Swann.

She did, as a matter of habit and familiarity, more than as a lack of good manners, not knock before walking into the study, unknowingly adapting the behaviour of the young woman, whose disappearance, inunderstandable as it was to every other present, was very clearly concievable to her.

It was, however, none the less annoying.

Swann looked up, panic in his eyes, but relaxed visibly when he acknowledged Crystabella entering the room of his misery. There was something about the spanish woman, that had a calming air about it, confidence and sympathy in her eyes. She was, indeed, the one person he was able to bear in this hour.

"Weatherby", she said, softly, and approached in a rustle of long skirts and dark hair, lowering herself to the ground next to his chair. Her hand found her way upon his and she looked at him with unblinking eyes. They had long since resorted to calling each other by their first names, and nothing had seemed more natural ever since. "I just heard. What can I say?"

He shrugged, at loss for words, but still comforted by her mere presence. The pressure of the last weeks, the schemes he had been plotting with her, all had come crushing around him when he learned, that his daughter had gone missing. This was the end to his attempts of reconcilation, and it was, ironically, also the end to the threats that had brought him into this situation in the first place. However, Weatherby Swann had already understood that the shadow over Elizabeth's life had begun to cloud his own as well. Family ties were ever important back in England, and disgrace of the daughter would surely bring the downfall of the father as well.

How utterly unimportant all this seemed right now.

"I cannot", Crystabella continued, still softly, "concieve any circumstances that could have led to this. Your daughter is headstrong, I know. But was there any reason that could have driven her away?"

"I do not know", Swann said weekly, absently still holding her hand. "I do not know, Crystabella. I would not have thought. Maybe it was Turner. Maybe it was that pirate again… but… why?" He shook his head. "I have not seen it coming. I… goodness, gracious, I may have been so entangled in this mess that I did not see anything at all."

She sighed, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

"You have been under a lot of strain lately. I understand." She lowered her lids, long, luxorious lashes, just to have him gaze into her black eyes again, transfixing as they were. "But what", she asked, if a trifle breathlessly, "are you going to do now?"

He put his free hand to his forehead, thoughtfully staring at the rain outside.

"I do not know. I would have sent Norrington, but he is out at sea…"

"He has been gone for quite some time"; Crystabella mused, thoughtfully. "I know well that it is not in my place to say so… but…" She hesitated for a moment, but then continued, her voice, soft, questioning, but with a timbre to it, that did not fail in its effect. "… he seems to have been preoccupied lately. He is chasing the pirate Sparrow, by all means that he has."

"And neglects Port Royal", Swann concluded, agreeing with a small nod. Such a pity the whole affair was. He had liked the boy, thoroughly hoped for him to become something like his son. His marriage to Elizabeth would have been some kind of fulfillment of Swann's dreams, his beloved daughter and the Commodore, who held Elizabeth in such a high esteem, and who was such a valiant man. And yet, he had become less reliable of late. The desaster of the Maragui archipele… his long absence, his obsession with catching Sparrow.

Commodore James Norrington was definitely not a cornerstone of his safety any more.

"He has been away, when Port Royal needed him most"; Crystabella reminded him of the painful attack of the ship, that still had not been identified. Another fact that would have been different, had Norrington and the Dauntless been there.

"You are right, Crystabella", he sighed, with regret. "I fear, that there is not much trusting in Commodore Norrington at the moment."

She lowered her eyes, in agreement and regret.

"But what am I to do, then", Swann asked, feeling bereft of the safety of her gaze. He had come to rely more and more on her wisdom and quick thinking, and now, he would need it more than ever.

"We need to find her, of course."

There was steel in her gaze, and for an instance, Swann had the deep, unsettling feeling of falling into the depth of an endless pit, but then there was warmth in her face again and the notion passed.

"It is hard to say…" He felt dispair gnaw at him like a predator finally catching up with him. For so long, he had tried to battle it, but now, finally, with Elizabeth gone, it was quickly gaining ground. "It is not, as if we had all the resources of the world…"

She sighed, her skirt rustling as she changed posture. "Although there… might be… a way."

He was all attention in an instant, leaning in to her with burning intensity.

"Tell my. Anything. Everything."

Her face was mere inches from his. Her breath was on his face, sweet and smelling of roses, an intoxicating odor that mingled with the fresh smell of her hair, that brought back memories of the sea on a sunny day. She was looking at him with equal intensity.

"I might… be able, to concieve something, Governor…" He was trembling with curiosity, despair and desperate hope. "There may be", she continued, her voice dropping to a mere whisper, so that he was forced to lean even closer to understand her, close enough to feel her warmth, her smile, "a resource we have not yet fallen back on… something… different."  
"What…" he started, then let it hang in midair.

"I cannot tell you in full now…", she whispered, trembling in unison with him, anticipation running through her body as well as through his. "Not today… but soon. I will find her for you, bring her back for you…"

Hope shone in his eyes, and he barely heard her next words, as her second hand found his left, her fingers touching his, warming him, beseeching him. "… but I need you to trust me."

The room was silent, the pounding rain so far, so far away, nothing left but the sound of their breathing, nothing left but the sound of their silence. "You do trust me Weatherby… don't you?"  
There was a moment of panic, a moment of time being stopped, being altered, but there were her eyes, so close, so dark, so wonderfully beseeching, and he felt himself drowning in her, in her spell, a memory of something long past, maybe even something long beyound the span of his own years' time.

His answer came immediately.

"Yes."

The words shattered silence, and there was a storm that came upon him, and when he, at last, realized, how terrible a mistake he had made, what kind of devil he had, unwillingly, pledged himself to, there was no room left to scream.

* * *

It was a shame, actually, that Leonora Halvery had been sleeping ever since her exchange with Elizabeth Swann, a comatose slumber that was pure oblivion.

This would have been the perfect moment to try another attempt at escape.


	28. Of all that's true

A/N: My goodness. I have no idea why this had been so excrucingly hard to write. Really. I had figured this out a VERY long time ago, knew exactly what was supposed to happen – but it was that blasted, elusive Sparrow guy again! And, I confess, my headache yesterday evening. It transformed to a sore throat today, but it is way easier to write like that than with my head throbbing..

anyway.

I had my troubles with this chapter but now it's done. And here for your enjoyment.

Another remark: If there are any german readers out there - the first paragraph of this chapter is a variation of a theme of a german fantasy author (sorry, his works are not translated to english, as far as I know). Cookies for those, who find out :-D

darklight03: Sparrow for you!

* * *

**Chapter 26**

**Of all that's true**

The question of being good or evil is certainly one of the most discussed in the world – apart from the question of understanding the mind of females maybe, or even the question of the best way to earn a fortune without moving so much as a finger.

Many books have been written on it, wars have been waged – or claimed to be waged – in the name of this question, great thinkers have turned it around and around, surveyed the problem from every side as if it were a dangerous animal about to attack, and yet, they have found no ultimate solution to what they were looking for.

And thus, the answer to the question, after the brightest minds of mankind failing to give a singularily convenient one, may depend on whom we ask.

If somebody had asked the young Lieutenant Norrington, on one of his first voyages across the endless seas, if there was the possibility of any good coming out of a bad action, he would have ferociously denied this. He would be – astonishingly – sided in this by Jack Sparrow, whose concience seemed immune to the regret of the outcomes of his actions, and who felt quite unconcerned by the revelation, that he was, in fact, an evil man of sorts.

Both would, today, being honest to themselves, have to change their recent opinion, to soften it into the shades of grey their world of black and white threatened to become.

However, that particular honesty appealed basically to no one.

There was much discussion of that very special question in the British colony of Port Royal, the inhabitants reliving the followings of the Black Pearl incident, taking judgement and exchanging opinions. The strict code of british society did not, by nature, include desperate measures, yet the Carribbean was a desperate surrounding. It brought out the extreme in all of them.

And thus, the Carribbean, in its own way, gave the answer to the question as to whether any good thing can come out of a bad intention.

It is, in fact, fairly trivial.

Because it happens.

Every day.

Jack Sparrow, for instance, was a master of it.

* * *

Nobody in his right mind would have accused Jack Sparrow of any good intentions in his beginning dealings with Susannah Delanney. It was, indeed, quite the opposite.

After Anamaria had cornered him that fateful day, when the Black Pearl was still drifting between the twin islands back in the mist, he had made it a point of avoiding her the best he could. Anamaria was, indeed, far too smart and far too insistent for her taste. Indeed, nothing, that they had found on the islands had been fit to calm his nerves, yet, secrecy becomes a habit of heart and mind, and Jack Sparrow found himself quite unable to share his thoughts at the moment.

They were back to Tortuga, in the very best of pirate manners, to spend what had fallen into their hands, in the sweet and sour jungle that was the pirate port. Indeed, they had spent the first two days getting thoroughly drunk – and laid, even though that maybe did not count for Anamaria.

Jack was tempted to account her foul mood on the third morning to the fact, he was, however, wise enough, not to utter this in public or in private.

It would have been much easier to scorn her, had she not been so annoyingly right.

„She will find out, eventually", she picked up the thread of a conversation days ago, as if they had never left off, just been interrupted for the briefest of moments, catching up with him as he strolled leisurely through the streets of Tortuga, that still seemed to be recovering from last night's excess. „And then there'll be the devil to pay anyway."

„Ah, Anamaria, so nice to see you, luv. I hope you had a pleasant night. As for myself, I can assure you, that I did." He flashed her a smile, that she mimicked without any real joy.

„Jack, stop it, please. What are you going to do?"

„So much concern for me wellfare? I'm touched..." He grinned cleverly. „It's not, my concern, though. Pirate, remember? Not much about responsibility."

Anamaria snorted.

„If she saw it fit to hide it, seal it, then give the seal to you..." She reconsidered, then shrugged, as if suddenly giving up. Somehow, she seemed to fail to remember why she cared. Maybe Jack was right. This would, however mean, that she gave in to him, however rational her reasons should be, and thus she gave him an evil look and shook her head in disapproval.

Jack sighed and stopped in his stride.

„Annie, luv." She responded in kind, turning towards him, hands on her hips. „Ye don't know her as well as I do, but believe me, we will go to see her. We will definitely do so. How could I leave her in the dark when such things are afoot? I couldn't, savvy?" His remorse was nicely acted, but the problem about dishonest people was that some of the people dealing with them somewhen got the wind of one's dishonesty. Which was definitely why Anamaria was distrustful.

The problem about Jack Sparrow was, though, that despite his apparent dishonesty he was, at times, a blatantly honest man. The problem really was in telling when he was what.

Anamaria had learned of this the hard way, and comparing the mistakes she had made by trusting him to those she had made not trusting him, then she would have to realize that the former had been the less disastrous ones.

Acknowledging this, she made it a point of not trusting Captan Jack Sparrow.

Which was a shame, because, in this particular moment, Jack Sparrow was, indeed, telling the truth, or his intentions, as they were at the moment. He would not swear, even to himself, that he would not change the intentions again at some point or other, but for the moment, might as well act as if he really intended what he said.

„Considering what I am going to tell her, though, I do not want to end up there empty-handed. You know, her temper and all."

Anamaria raised her eyebrows.

„You've got a point there. Any plans?"

Jack only grinned.

* * *

He had, of course, only bluffed in that exchange with Anamaria. In truth, at that point he did not have any idea yet, as to what he was supposed to find as a gift for that very special lady. Of course, not any of the general rules applied here, and Jack Sparrow was well aware, that he would have to think of something very special. But being Captain Jack Sparrow, riding the waves of luck and intuition, that was sure to come.

He spent the next two days walking around Tortuga, meeting old and new aquaintances, getting drunk in various places. And this was, where he first heard the story of Susannah Delanney. Not of Susannah Delanney as such, of course, but of Lucilla, the young woman who had settled in the outskirts of Tortuga, and about whom very peculiar things were said.

He did, in fact, stumble upon an aquaintance of Anthony Hollerby, who long before already had left for England, and therefore was in the fortunate position to hear not only any rumor of the seeress of Tortuga, but instead the very first rumors, which Susannah and Anthony had devised and brought about to gain maximum effect. So he heard of the way that the young woman had, indeed, foreseen a peculiar part of the personal surrounding of Hollerby. There were others who claimed for her to have done wonders, different ones who described Lucilla to be quite creepy, but this sounded only all the more alluring to Jack. And like a moth drawn to the flame, he decided to find out, what there was about that girl who had, apparently, made herself quite a name in Tortuga, while he had been away.

* * *

Susannah had not expected for customers to come so early. And thus it was, that her first visitor for that day caught her a trifle off foot when he confidently walked into her curtain filled lair. She sat before the window that was in the back of the house, looking out through milky windows into the street. Her dark hair was unbozund, and she had not yet bothered to rim her eyes with khol or decorate her ears with the long, silver earrings she was usually wearing. She had counted the income of the day before, realizing, not without a certain satisfaction, that apparently word had spread. If things continued as they were, she would be able to make a living out of this charade. Not that it was as satisfactory as the honest craftswork she had done before, but she had already realized, that beggers could not be chosers.

There were times, where she missed her old life hard enough to be even unable to cry. She was bleeding inside, instead.

A knock on her door tore her out of her reverie. She flinched, then frowned, estimating the hour of the day by the hue of the light coming through the window.

It was, on the whole, to early for a customer.

She considered playing silent, just ignoring whoever came to disturb her in this hour, but there was a trifle left of her craftsman's honor, of the hard lessons imprinted upon her by her mother, day by day and every day more. The shop is always open.

Susannah decided against hiding and opened her door.

„Morning, luv."

Golden teeth blinking at her, a dazzling smile in dark eyes under a red bandana. Black rastas hanging down on both sides of the face of her visitor, who, apparently, was making quite an effort to look likeable.

It was lost, though, on Susannah. She recognized Captain Jack Sparrow immediately. Like almost every other inhabitant of Port Royal she had attended his hanging and the chaos, that ensued afterwards, and she had taken some pride in her ability to never forget a face. She swallowed hard, stared at him for a moment.

For the first time since she had started the charade, she was afraid. And she didn't even know, why.

Seconds passed, before she remembered her manners.

„Come in."

Sparrow brushed past her and looked around openly, appraising his surroundings with a manner of grandeur, that was quite unbefitting of the place Tortuga. Susannah, while following him, feeling as if she trailed behind in the manner of a lost puppy, tried to remember, what Elizabeth Swann had told her about that very pirate.

„What can I do for you?"

Sparrow was still looking around, mouth in a half-pout, before he took a seat, smiling at her and leaning half over the table to gaze into her eyes that she with much determination schooled into an expression of polite indifference.

„I've been asking meself...", he began, thoughtfully. „... evrybody's talking about you these days. You are... famous around here. I was curious."

Susannah raised both eyebrows, wondering what he had, in fact, come for. Usually, she found it quite easy to guess, what errand brought her customers to this house, but Jack Sparrow remained, quite like the description from Elizabeth promised, unfanthomable.

„And do I satisfy your curiosity?"

„Depends, depends", Sparrow answered, raising a finger. „You know... I have been to Tortuga very often. Very often, indeed. So... how come I never heard of you?"

„I have come here only a month ago", Susannah answered, with a little shrug. „Apparently you have not been to Tortuga since."

„True enough", Sparrow admitted, smiling, leaning his head to one side. „But where did you come from?"

Susannah answered his gaze. The feeling of being surprised waned, and she began to found her balance again. The slightest of smiles was on her lips.

„Far too curious, Jack Sparrow..."

He raised an eyebrow at this first trick of prediction, trivial as it was. But Jack knew his face was a popular one.

„I call it interest", he dodged, smiling again.

She squinted her eyes.

„Why are you here?"

He leaned back, comfortably, apparently, spreading out his hands in a generous manner.

„I am here to have my fortune told, of course."

Susannah did her best to smile.

„I see. And what manner do you want me to? The cards? The dice? The loafs of tea?"

„Ah... no", Sparrow replied, by way of passing. „I... want my fortune told... the way you did with sweet Anthony Hollerby, savyy?" He brought forth a dirty palm, black smears of grease lying in the lines of his hand. „The touch. The lines of my hand." Susannah stared at him, eyes wide. Sparrow came closer, his breath upon her lips making her tremble. „Surprise me."

She blinked and her thoughts raced, considering. She felt she was put to a test, and she was, by all means, unwilling to follow. Touching him, telling the fortune of his hand, in a manner, that had nothing to do with the lines in there, made her cringe, because it was something so utterly and completely... private.

She had felt exposed, when she had understood what she had told Hollerby, and she was not even capable of thinking about the time, when she had, apparently, exposed a part of her soul she had no command over to the Commodore of Port Royal, in a manner, that left her breathless with shame.

She was very unwilling to follow his request.

But Jack Sparrow was famous. To refuse him would fuel his distrust, a distrust he was most obviously harboring, and this could be disastrous beyound words. She found, she had started to relieve herself of her right glove before she even came to a conclusion, conciously.

„Very well", she answered, deciding. None of her conflict showed on her face, not even for the very perceptive Jack Sparrow. The pirate was a master at perception, but Susannah was no novice herself. „Then I will."  
She closed her eyes, carefully listening to something inside her that she did not now where to look for. She had never done this before. In the days after her meeting with Anthony, she had more than once tried to lure out the elusive gift she had been blessed – and, indeed, cursed – with, but it had fled like a wild deer retreating. She had learned, that she could, to some extent, maybe repress it, but never call upon it, when she wanted too. And thus, she was feeling extremely nervous, as she was mechanically lighting candles, locking the door of her house to shut out visitors. In her mind, thoughts were tumbling. She was considering what she could tell him, collected information that she had heard about him, mixing it with guesswork and that, which she derived from his posture.

He was looking for something. And he was tense.

Finally, she placed herself across the table once again, smiling under half-closed lids.

„Place your hand on the table", she whispered, and he complied, his face telling plainly, that the scenery partly got through him, the curtains, the semi-darkness, the candles, and her face. She relaxed, if only a trifle. „I will only tell you what I see, Jack Sparrow", she whispered, „not what you like to see, not what answer you are seeking. The gift is not made that way. The shreds of time obey to no one, not even to me."

There was a slight twitch to his mouth at that, but he remained silent, continuing to watch her, as she slowly, softly lay down her hand on his, in a touch, a caress, or something in between.

His hand was surprisingly warm to her cool one, dry despite its obvious dirty appearance, lying under hers calmly, almost trustingly. She did not know what she had expected. She had touched people before, fleeting touches, professional touches, some of them even without the ever present gloves. There were, as far as she could tell, only few opportunities, in which whatever drove her had gripped her.

Perhaps she waited to be seized. To be taken by a wave that threatened to drown her, but Susannah did not, conciously, remember any of her foretellings, nor the beginning of it, nor the aftermath. She was at loss as to what she would expect.

Slowly, carefully she tried to think not of anything. Not of anything or anyone, not even the number of her predictions and outbursts, the first with the Commodore on the docks, the second with Crystabella, the third with Anthony. This would be the fourth one, fourth in a significant row, significant four, if nothing else.

„Four", she whispered and shrank back at her voice. „Always the shadow of four..."

She gazed at their hands entwined, in a mixture of panic, bewildering and wonderment. She felt detached, far away, at loss for orientation in a world, that was similar, but not quite like her own. It was happening, she felt with a distinct feeling of surprise, and she fell, deeply and thoroughly, through the looking glass.

„Four sides to a form, four corners to end", she whispered. „Three sides to a side, four sides to a key. Four souls to break a curse, a hound, a sparrow, a bear and a swann. And yet, the four still reigns."

There was a frown on Sparrows face, his eyes wide yet his forehead wrinkled. „Four sides to a key, four seals to a prison. Three sides to the spell, one base to them all." She closed his hand by means of her own, softly lay her hand around his. „The wisdom of the old", she whispered, softly bringing forth his digit, in a movement, that was, again, almost a caress. „The stubbornness of resistance...", she brought forth the second finger, Sparrow staring at her in something close to fear, „the fealty of a friend", she added the third, the ring finger, „and the dreams of the free..." The forth finger was brought forward, and Susannah lifted her gaze to look Sparrow in the eye. „Add one, loose one... the cage has broken, the seals distroyed... The prisoner gone free."

Jack Sparrow recoiled, with that particular scream of his, that expressed uneasiness as well as annoyance.

His hand left Susannahs, and it left her shaken. She fought for composure, hard, and Sparrow did the same. She had no idea of the meaning of what she had said, but she still felt peculiar, only slowly regaining what seemed to be a control of her own body. Not, that she had had the feeling of loosing control during what she had said. She had felt, very much, herself, and the things she had said had been good, come to her naturally, like something that was right beyound the mere meaning of the word true. She had thought, in her wildest hours, that the strange predictions had come from some kind of seizure, but now, she realized, they came, instead, from within.

„How interesting..." Sparrow had apparently regained his composure as well. He had sat down again to look at her, the flames of the candles glinting in his eyes. „I have an offer to make, Lucilla." He was, indeed, using her name, and this above all got to her.

„I listen."

„You are new", Sparrow said. „But you are true. No charlatan, none of those idiots who do not grasp a thing. You know what you are doing." Susannah felt uneasy at his perception. He was up to something, but she was unable to decipher and therefore unable to dodge. „But you are new. Uneasy. Foreign. Confused." His expression showed more pity with every description of his, the corners of his mouth drooping. „You are so very confused, luv..." With a shock, she realized, that he was right. And she had now idea, how he had come to guess all of this. „But I know", Sparrow continued, „something valuable to you. I know many. And I know one like you. Older than you. She..." He leaned over to her, whispering to her face of a strange fortune. „She could teach you."

He lifted a hand, to push away a stray hair from her forehead and she trembled, by the prospect and the mere intensity of his voice and gaze.

„I could bring you there...", he promised.

And showed her heaven and hell beyound the same door.


	29. Variations on a theme of trust

A/N: A little pause, due to a conference I went to. Luckily for you, though, I spoke only english there, so there might be less mistakes in here… or more, because I am getting ambitious.

Anyway, I hope this will furthermore clear up the dealings of the unfanthomable Mrs. Halvery – and the nature of her very strange daughter.

* * *

**Chapter 28**

**Variations on a theme of trust**

First, there was nothing. Graceful oblivion.

The void, untouchable, everything undone.

A spirit, as it was, slept dreamlessly.

* * *

Then, there was the call of the sea. A sound like a dream, a memory maybe. Waves crashing the sand, kissing the rocks, singing a song of truth and dreams, like bearings from a kingdom afar. A song, familiar like the back of your hand, lines and planes transformed into wave and ripple, the same picture wearing another's clothing. There were connections, that truly ran deep.

A call of unrest, of something entering nothing, diminishing at the edges, just like a color being washed out by the rain. A spirit was stirring, unwillingly.

* * *

Third there was a call. Like a song riding the wind, born of the elements and mastering them, a storm on the horizon, quickly gaining ground. Like odors travelling far and wide with speed, the wind brought forth images in a rush, and feelings, only an instant later.

A girl, a woman, really, honey colored hair, even features. Her face proud and defying, a creature of the winds and familiar with it. A man, still young, dark hair, carefully trimmed beard, soft eyes. And rage, such an incredible rage, and a notion of haste and unrest, travelling far and wide in its desperate quest for attention, a question both raised and answered, cause and final destination to the doom of the unfortunate.

A spirit moaned, in terror, in defiance. And with the utter power of will, sank deeper into sleep.

* * *

And last there were words, final means of expression. A point to a sentence, or an exclamation mark, rather. A yes to the question, a breath to finality.

Find them

Kill them

Bring them down.

The spirit tossed, fighting an inhuman battle. But it prevailed.

Theodore Almington, however, was torn from his rest.

* * *

He stepped unto the bridge, the night watch shooting a wondering glance towards him. He placed his feet carefully as he slowly went up to the rail to stare out into the void, into the direction of the incoming wind.

Northern winds were rare here, between a couple of the countless islands of the carribbean, and thus he would have found it curious, had not something told him where the tale was seeping out from, what voice was covering the wilderness. He smiled in remembrance of the splendid woman that had so unexpectedly changed his life on a simple crossing from England over to the carribbean sea. There were times, when it seemed unreal.

Had he been asked to put a finger to it, when his attitude, his wishes, indeed his life had changed, he might have placed it on the fatal part of their voyage together, when, thirsty and despairing, they stumbled upon the islands in the mist, that had been their utter salvation from a death of thirst and agony.

He had never been truly able to hide his adoration for Crystabella since then.

After that, slowly weights had shifted. Things, that had seemed important, had become less vital day by day. It had all come quite naturally. The voice was his lifeline in the dark, as well as his crew's, a lifeline of those who trusted him to any end.

What a splendid charm, loyality was.

And now his mistress was calling him out again, on another hunt, on another prey. He did not especially like what she had made her do, in fact, he felt deeply disgusted by the death of the seamstress that his minions reported him about. He had not appreciated their playful behavior about the whole thing.

But Theodore Almington trusted Crystabella. As far as he was concerned, he had always done.

He believed in the foundations of the world, in loyality, in the absence of questions at inopportune moments.

He did not like what she was asking.

But he would do it anyway.

* * *

"Only one."

Her voice was defiant, though strained, her gaze full of contempt, as she looked upon her mother. Leonora Halvery still was pale, much too pale, her skin almost translucent, but she kept tight regime on herself and stood upright, standing on the balcony next to Crystabella, knuckles, that were gripping the railing, deadly white. And yet, at the sight of the elder woman, a smile found its way to her face, bitter though it was, and strained, but a smile of mischief and a hint of triumph. "You called two."

Crystabella half turned towards her inobediant daughter, the expression in her eyes inscrutable. It was clear, that she was displeased, but to what extent, Leonora was at loss telling. She was, however, also long beyound caring.

"It is amazing on how you feed on little thinks that you consider being your triumph, even though they are neither of your making, or your concern."

"I do what I can", Leonora retorted between clenched teeth. Her eyes, the only thing seemingly alive by now, were blazing with fire.

"I should have left you sleeping", Crystabella replied, in an off-handed manner. She had returned her gaze to the sea and shrugged, as if she was discussing a matter of only small importance to her. "I brought you out here so you understand, but obviously it is no use."

"I understand well", Leonora wheezed, struggling against something unseen. "Much better then you like."

"Why don't you just give up?" It sounded like a mother speaking to a defiant daughter, to a child being, in fact, utterly silly, screaming in mindless, childish rage at a matter of no real value. She did not sound as if she cared, and there were times, when Leonora wondered, whether this was true. But the whirling rage inside her was strong, strong enough to be, indeed, defiant, even if only in words.

"Because you can not make me do that."

A grim, smile on her lips, that was answered by one of Crystabella's own, this one softer, knowing, forgiving even.

"Indeed." She made it sound like a question.

Leonora swallowed hard, swayed shortly, but the darkness did not overpower her yet. There still was strength left in her.

"You made the promise", Crystabella reminded, still calmly. Something was lurking beneath her eyes, but Leonora refused to look. She had gazed into the icy voids much too often. "Just like everyone else."

"I have been known to change my mind", Leonora spat angrily, fighting against the black void.

"My dear child."

Now Crystabella turned towards her, fully, and the girl shrank back at the tone in his eyes, knowing that she had gone far, maybe too far. No muscle in her face betrayed her fury, but Leonora could tell of it, knew it with every fiber of her body. She was losing again. "And here we come to the point, where you, indeed, do not understand. A pledge is a pledge. A word is a word. You cannot just take back a promise. The power of loyality runs deeper than you can possibly know." The tone of a teacher it was, and yet, the meaning of her words were chains. "Nobody can defy that, you know?" she said softly.

Leonora swayed and felt unconciousness creeping nearer. But there was still time for a last uprising.

"Apparently the second did. Didn't he?"

"Why don't you go back to bed, dear?"

It was most definitely not a suggestion. And Leonora complied.

* * *

"Crystabella!" Swann's eyes were shining as he saw her approaching, a splendid figure in the last rays of sunlight of the day. Her long hair, unbound, was waving softly over her shoulder and her eyes were sparking affectionately. "I thought you had retired already."

She shook her head, placing her hands over his and smiling.

"In fact, I was looking for you."

"For me?" he replied in mock wonder, then smiled again. "This is most splendid to hear."

He offered her his arm and they strolled into one of the larger rooms, sitting on a chaiselongue. The servants had started to lighten the candles for the evening.

Gouverneur Swann had not even noticed how quiet, disturbed and subdued they had become.

"Witherby, I have been thinking", Crystabella began. "About your daughter…"

There was some anxiousness in his eyes, subdued, as if hidden under a curtain, but it was there, and her comforting hand on his did not still it. "I may have a means of finding her."

"Anything", he replied, chokedly. His good mood from only moments ago seemed to have vanished. "Anything."

Crystabella nodded, pondering. "But I might need your help, Witherby, in this. I can not do it alone."

"How can I help you?"

She smiled.

"You are the governer of Port Royal. Should there be any decent navyman in these seas, who could refuse to your call?"

* * *

Hours later, when she apparently had prepared all, that she needed, and now at last called upon him, he was not sure what kind of nagging feeling it was, that told him, that this whole thing was so completely and utterly wrong.

He had brought the things she asked for, the golden chain that Elizabeth had long guarded, and then worn in the Isla de la Muerta disaster, now bereft of its gem, only a combination of golden rings, and the engagement band, that young Turner had purchased – presumably spending a considerable portion of his small savings on it – and then brought up to the residence for the engagement party. He was, however, at loss as to why Crystabella would ever want them.

She was sitting on her balcony as she had told him, a group of candles on the table, softly flickering in the wind. There was sand on the wood of the plate, spread out in some pattern he did not recognize, but when he saw her, smiling at him, he forgot whatever question he had thought about uttering.

"Thank you", she whispered, when he gave her the items, and with the utmost care she placed them between the candles, small fingers working deftly and grazing the sand on some parts to make the pattern perfect.

She opened an ink bottle and handed him a feather, silently, and when he was starting to utter a question she just raised a finger to her lips, begging him to stay silent, her dark eyes intent and wondering.

She looked quite a sight, standing there, bathed in candlelight, kissed by the soft colors of the night, the moon looming above them. Her eyes were closed, and she was softly humming to herself.

Witherby Swann, meanwhile, experienced a very brief moment of clarity, and therefore, of complete and utter panic. Like a veil unlifted he saw the scenery for what it was, and saw his own involvement with it, but then she was smiling again, a hand outstretched in a friendly gesture.

"Come over here", she begged, and he complied willingly, putting his hand in hers. A tremor shot through him at the feel of her fingers, cool now in the night air. "Speak after me", she whispered, and he did, repeating her words, as softly as she did, but in his own tone, his own manner, his own authority, now a shadow of what it once was, but still powerful in its own way.

"By the oath you swore…", he whispered upon her command. "… by the love you bear for king and country…", his voice strong at these words, so often uttered. "… heed the call. Do as you are commanded…"

She opened the ink bottle, and he dipped the feather, let the ink fall in the middle of the sand pattern, dark stains, like blood in the candle light.

"Sealed by the governor, representative of the kingdom."

Crystabella brought down her hands on the ring and the chain.

"These are those you seek", she concluded, her voice still a whisper, but more powerful than a scream. "Heed the call!"

And a spirit, fighting, sensing the trap, could yet resist no more.


	30. Through a spying glass

A/N: I have to excuse myself for the slow update. My job's quite demanding at the time, but now, we are getting to the fun of it. I immensely enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy yourself reading it!

All the best

Spirit

* * *

**Chapter 29**

**Through a spying glass**

If compared to the anxious strain that her trip on the 'Mary of the seas' had been, Susannah Delanney found herself almost enjoying the voyage aboard the 'Black Pearl'.

They left Tortuga the day after Jack Sparrow had visited her cottage and had not once seen land since. Despite his reputation of being a notoriously untrustworthy scoundrel, Jack Sparrow had, on his own standarts, been courtesy impersonated towards her, which had, on the other hand, done nothing to quench her suspicion about him and his intentions on bringing her on this trip.

Elizabeth Swann had, despite her apparent fondness for the pirate captain, been quite clear about it indeed. Sparrow, she had said, runs on his own plans and own motives. He includes no one in his dealings, lies, betrays and decieves at will, can be annoyingly direct and annoyingly closed up, runs on improvisation and is very intent on feeding the legend of his very own person.

Susannah Delanney, gifted with quite an insight into human nature, would heartingly agree with the Governor's daughter by the end of her first full day aboard the 'Black Pearl'.

She made it a habit of trying to avoid the captain, difficult as it was aboard a ship on the ocean, and on the occasions in which she failed in doing so, she made sure, that he only caught her in company, standing next to Gibbs, or, preferredly, Anamaria.

She was not sure why she did so. It was true, that only Jack Sparrow could give her any answer to the questions, that were pounding in her mind, but she was reluctant to talk to him. She did not expect him to give any straight answers, and when she thought of her encounter with Commodore Norrington some time ago in Tortuga, she knew she was not exactly one to blame someone else for being reclusive. Jack Sparrow played a game that was not entirely alien to her.

However, Susannah was unused to finding herself on the other side of this inequal pair of knowledge, myth and misinformation. And she was, as a result, quite unsure of how she would have been able to coax any information out of the elusive captain.

To be honest, she knew next to nothing. Jack Sparrow had promised her some manner of schooling, some manner of teaching, but in what way or – even more interesting – by whom – she had yet to reveal.

Susannah had resorted herself to asking those, who were easier accessible, Anamaria and Gibbs, for instance, who, for whatever reason, had taken it upon themselves to take her under their wings, even seperating her from Jack Sparrow, once they had understood, that she did not feel very comfortable in his presence. Anamaria, in fact, was a person quite to Susannah's liking. She did not pry, was more of a silent nature, straightforward and confident, but not boastful and with a certain kind of thoughtfulness, that was, as far as Susannah could tell from experience, uncommon in pirates.

And thus she found herself at the helm quite often, standing next to Anamaria, dressed in similar breeches, sometimes even shading her head with a similar hat, two dark-haired women standing in silence.

Susannah could not help feeling, that life on the Black Pearl had begun to change her, and not only for the better.

They were at sea for six days until Anamaria apparently had observed her long enough to begin to ask questions. And Susannah found herself astonished at how little she knew.

„Do you know, why he took you here?" she asked, out of the blue, surprising, not even looking at her. Her tone wsa crisp, and Susannah twinkled twice, before she shrugged softly.

„I am not sure, to be honest."

The pirate woman quirked an eyebrow.

„You came here on his ship just for his black eyes and a vague promise of nothing?" Her tone suggested, that she had thought differently about Susannah, and she felt a sudden urge to correct her.

„No", she said, a sudden flash of spirit, that sparkled a little surprise in Anamaria's eyes. „It was... a bit more than that."

The pirate raised her eyebrows in a mute question and Susannah reluctantly grasped for words.

„It was... something else", she avoided any clear statement and Anamaria sighed in annoyance.

„Listen, girl. Jack Sparrow is no easy man to deal with, you should know. And if I am about to help you, I want to know, what this is all about. He has taken a fancy in something about you. What is it?"

Susannah pursed her lips, thinking.

„I think, it is something I said", she then admitted, softly.

Anamaria placed her right hand loosely at the helm and watched Susannah pensievely. Unlike her words before, when her eyes had hever left the horizon, she now seemed to be very intent on the young guest of the Black Pearl.

„Meaning?"

Susannah sighed softly, taking a deep breath as if to plunge. She would have to tell someone, sooner or later. It was painfully evident, why Captain Sparrow had taken her with him, she just did not know on what purpose.

„In Tortuga, I have been working as a fortune teller of sorts." Now it was her, who eyed the horizon. „And he came to have his fortune told."

„This does not really sound like Jack", Anamaria disagreed. „He is not very superstitious... for a sailor."

Susannah blinked, then finally decided on partial honesty.

„I may... have been right about one thing or other. Unintentionally. Or perhaps intentionally. I don't know. I sometimes am right."

„In the sense of... real vodoo stuff?" Anamaria sounded sceptical, but Susannah's nod was firm.

„If you want to call it that way."

„What did you say?"

Susannah shrugged, a bit vaguely.

„Something about a seal."

The offhand nature of her remark left her completely unprepared for Anamaria's reaction. The pirate stared at her, unblinking for a few seconds, features frozen in an expression she could not place.

Then she called out to Mr. Cotton.

„Take the helm for a while", she commanded, and Cotton complied, his parrot resting comfortably on the wood of the steering wheel, while Anamaria brought Susannah to the back of the ship, sitting down, leaning her back against the rail.

„What do you mean with a seal?"

„I do not remember all of it", Susannah said, a bit uneasily. „You would have to ask the captain for all of it. But I remember... an item."

Anamaria squinted her eyes, thereby prying her into continuing.

„Some... artefact, some gem. Three triangles, one on each side, and a fourth one as the base. Metal... green glass. A tear in the glass. The knowledge, that this is a seal. There are four of them. Somewhat. Signifying something."

She placed her face in her hands, trying to remember. „There was the fealty of a friend... the dreams of the free... the wisdom of the old... the stubbornness of resistance. These are... four keys... somewhat. And each of them an artefact." She raised her head to look into Anamarias eyes. „You know about this in parts, don't you?"

The pirate seemed to think, that honesty should lead to honesty, and she nodded.

„In parts, so to say." She pulled up her legs, placing her head onto her knees. „Some time ago Gibbs saw Jack tossing something into the sea. His description sounds awfully like that thing that you described as being a seal. Afterwards, the Captain has never again been his usual self. Jumpy. Uneasy. He chased us to some place with two islands in the mist, under the pretence of knowing, that there was a lot of loot there. Hell, no", she corrected herself, „he did know, that there was a lot of loot there, but not in a port, but in a cave, somewhere on the mountain slope. It looked as if someone had escaped from there. Jack was upset – he did not say it, of course, but he was upset."

„Add one, loose one. The seal has broken, the prisoner gone free..."

„What?"

Susannah shrugged.

„I do not know, what it means. I just know that it is true."

Thoughtfully, Anamaria chewed her bottom lip.

„That is a very, very strange gift you have there, Lucilla."

She smiled, sadly.

„I know."

„Has it always been like this?" The directness of a pirate, and yet it threatened to chase Susannah away. But she was long beyound running.

„I don't know. I only learned it recently." She shook her head, trying for a change of subject. „Where are we going, anyway? Jack said something about someone like me... but older. Do you know what he meant?"

„Ah, so this is the reason..."

Anamaria shook her head, in mock annoyance, in sadness, who could know. Jack Sparrow acted indeed as he always had. She felt sad for the young woman, caught up in his web, and yet, there were paths she did not want to cross. She met Susannah's questioning gaze and shrugged.

„There is a woman that lives... upstream. She is very peculiar.. but she knows a lot. Few things on earth and sea there are that escape her, but she is not crossed or dealt with, easily. She is, indeed, as dangerous, as she is wise. Jack said, that it was her, who gave him the object that you saw. And more, he said, that she was the one who originally sealed this prison."

„The wisdom of the old..." Susannah mused pensievely, and Anamaria squinted her eyes, surprisedly.

„This might be, indeed."

„And so Jack Sparrow would be the dreams of the free..."

A smile tugged at the corner of Anamaria's mouth.

„That might truly be."

„But who..."

Yet, any more words or speculations, that any of them would have uttered, were quenched by Maroo, who, sitting in the crow's nest, had for once been watchful.

„Sails approaching from southeast!" Anamaria flew to her feet, watched, out, cursed colorfully.

Whoever it was, that could be seen on the horizon, was quite sure to bring bad news.

* * *

„Spyglass, Lieutenant."

There was no excitement in Commodore Norrington's voice, despite the feeling of anxiousness that had gripped him at the sight of the black sails on the horizon. His chase on the tail of the pearl had been a fruitless one, and if he would not have met a merchant's ship, who claimed fervently to have spotted the Pearl, indeed sailing in the opposite direction again, he would, up to now, have no ideas on her whereabouts.

Then however, he had picked up his trace in the proximity of Tortuga, and now, he was fairly certain, that he was finally closing in on the pirate ship.

Lieutenant Groves was eager to fulfill his request, placing the delicate object into the outstretched hand of his commander, and Norrington spyed over to the opposing ship, confirming, that it was, indeed, the Black Pearl.

The pirate at the helm looked familiar, a colorful parrot sitting on his shoulder. He had no idea what his name was, but he had definitely been with Sparrow only weeks before. And only instances later, his assumptions were confirmed.

From the cabin in the back of the ship strode Jack Sparrow, confident, arrogant, annoying as ever, taking out a spyglass of his own to get an estimation of the situation. Apparently he was already shouting the first orders, because hectic activity broke out on the opposing ship. Norrington sneered. There was nothing like british navy discipline when it came to rushes.

Close to Sparrow, a dark woman jumped up, talking to him in an agitated manner. He recognized her as well, the mulatto pirate that had travelled with him to Isla de la Muerta. There was a small smile on the Commodore's lips. He had them there, all of them, at once.

His gaze travelled further to another female figure, that had apparently been close to the first. Another set of black hair, curly, this time, tangled from wind and salt water. A wind took up, tearing the hat from her face, and she looked right in his direction, as if she were able to see him, distance and spyglass nonewithstanding.

He saw dark eyes, a gaze, that seemed tangible, not full of fear, but full of apprehension, and it was then, that he understood.

Lucilla.

She was with Sparrow.

But as his mind still was working on the implications of that, another resemblance struck, and he felt his body drained of his energy and strength, the winds knocked out of him by the sheer force of her gaze.

This peculiar gaze was singular, probably throughout the world, surely in the Carribbean.

Lucilla, the Tortuga seeress was Susannah Delanney of Port Royal.

„My god..."

The spyglass slipped from his fingers, and only by the sheerest luck he caught it before it fell into the water.

Groves looked at him questioningly, but he did not feel up to an explanation right now.

„Course north west west. We will have to cut their path, Lieutenant."

„Aye, sir." Groves nodded affirmatively, and while he hurried of to organize the execution of the Commodore's order, Norrington stared out to the sea, his thoughts in turmoil.

Lucilla was with Sparrow.

Lucilla who gave him his father's ring.

Lucilla was Susannah Delanney. The seamstress with the peculiar perception. But Susannah had been a citizen of Port Royal all the time, never leaving the city.

Or had she?

How long since her alliance with Sparrow began? Had it been there all along?

He tried to remember if he had seen her during Jack's escape from the battlements on his execution day, but he could not remember, his thoughts then being firmly fixed on Elizabeth.

Had she stood up for him?

How long?

And why had she given him the ring?

His hands gripped the railing, knuckles white, and he clenched his teeth, almost painfully. There was a dull ache in his chest that he was strongly convinced was rage, a feeling of being betrayed, a feeling of being toyed with.

How long...

He remembered wide eyes, her terrified words, the sorrow that had been in her eyes.

And then, elusive Lucilla.

In leage with Jack Sparrow.

He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. He had been betrayed before. However, he could by no means fanthom, why this time, it felt so utterly personal.

And why seeing Susannah Delanney among Sparrow's crew tore open wounds that had barely begun to heal.


	31. Flashes

A/N: Oh my god. You cannot imagine how hard this chapter was. And still, I am not fully satisfied, but since I fear, that I will never be, I am releasing it to you. Know, that I have rewritten it four times, revised it countless times, and know furthermore, that this, indeed, is another cornerstone of this story. Seven pages of storm and sea... We are, very slowly, getting to the flesh of it

darklight03: I know what you mean about jobs... I had little time for poor Susannah as well.

* * *

**Chapter 30**

**Flashes**

As changeable as the sea, people say, when they are trying to describe a changeable person, as if to hint to the fact, that one could, say, aboard a ship, never truly estimate on the caprices that the ocean would put up against the tiny humans, that delusionally thought to conquer it in a rush of pride. The Caribbean, Commodore Norrington was reminded in this situation, was said to be a region rivalled by none in its changeability, and surpassed only by the southern cap of the American continent, which was, as they say, near impossible to cross. He remembered well this information from the briefings and lessons that were part of the formation of the officers of His Majesty's Royal Navy, and what it brought with it, when he first learned of the perils that came with the desire of conquering the sea.

Yet, James Norrington, even in his youth, had never truly backed off of a challenge. In fact, he had mostly sought it.

In this, unbeknownst to him, he was indeed very much like Captain Jack Sparrow.

It seemed, that in this very hour, the Caribbean was trying to give another proof of its unpredictable weather, as two of its minions, alike in one way, apart in the other, engaged into another course of a battle, that had taken quite some time already, and that was nowhere near finished.

The storm had come quickly. Too quickly, some would have said, even for the unpredictable Caribbean weather. In the morning, the sky had been blue, brilliantly blue, with a sun burning down ferociously, and still, the last speckles of that weather where blinking towards him amidst the clouds, but he knew well, that this was only the last resistance of the sun against the storm brewing.

He had smelt it on the wind, that took up, filling their sails with a much stronger force than the light breeze of the morning could have done, and the ship had lurched forward, doing, what was otherwise very difficult to archieve – gaining on the Black Pearl, whose course did not allow her to take full advantage of the wind.

He did not think further of the storm, even though he maybe should have, because James Norrington, for all the spite that pirates showered over him for being none of the Caribbean, but instead a toff from cold, faraway England, knew these waters extremely well.

He should have known that this was quite an uncommon event.

However, his mind was bent on other things, even before he had spotted the slender frame of the Port Royal seamstress Susannah Delanney among Sparrow's minions. And still, as they flew closer, he had his spyglass pressed to his eye, surveying their approach, but not only that.

She did not seem to have any special task aboard the Black Pearl, for while the other pirates were scuffling around on deck, changing the rigging of the sails, readying the ship for battle, she just stood there, her hair toy to the wind now that the hat had gone and watched, as if she were able to see him across the tumultuous waters. There was no possibility that she was even able to spot people on the other ship by now, much less to look him directly in the eye as she seemed to be doing.

James Norrington involuntarily shivered and lowered the spyglass.

It was time for action.

* * *

Jack Sparrow and his crew had not payed the storm much heed. True, it had come quickly, but it was far away, and as of now, it seemed to rage south of them, meaning, that with any luck it would never get as far as them. True also, that the wind from it did not come exactly in a direction, that was good for where they were going, but they had not cared much, either, because Jack Sparrow was, while feeling a bit urgent, not really in a hurry. This, of course, changed when he realized that he was being pursued.

Now, it was difficult to tell, where best to turn. He could, of course, continue his original course, and with any luck, he might even that way escape the Dauntless – even though he doubted it, because Norrington, damn the man, had proven to be too good a sailor to be easily tricked. Besides, he might by this accidently lead the Navyman to HER. And then, there was no telling what would happen. Or who would go unscathed. If any.

Thus, he decided to change course. There were many directions that he could run to if pursued by the Dauntless. As long as he was out of her firing range, all was fine.

There was a grim smile on Norrington's face as he observed Sparrow's doings. Rash he was, and underestimating him all over again. He thought that it was for the better. This time, it would be the end of Captain Jack Sparrow.

It was true, that the Dauntless was not the fastest of ships. Sparrow had seen it maneuver and knew quite well what to expect of her. However, Norrington had spared a few surprises.

Passing in Port Aleho, where there was a small outpost of the East India Trading Company, he had disposed of more than half of the Dauntless' cannons. If the pirate was thinking about her still being as slow as she was before, he was in for an extremely unpleasant revelation. Not, that he could really outrace the Pearl by now, but neither would it be all to easy for Sparrow to escape him in a racing game.

The storm drew nearer, slowly only, grazing them with its outskirt, filling the sails and promising speed.

An intriguing game, indeed.

While on the outskirts of the storm, where Sparrow and Norrington where chasing one another, where the first bullets flew, and Sparrow, half in amusement, mostly in horror realized, that he had underestimated the Commodore, one could still think, that this storm was, while on the quick side, still a normal happening in the Caribbean.

* * *

In the heart of the storm, aboard the "Hansestern", things were considerably different.

The rage of the elements had, literally, dropped out of thin air, and within a matter of mere minutes, they had found themselves in the middle of a true thunderstorm.

Captain Ralph Hagener, claiming to be originating from the northern continental town of Hamburg, had done the only thing possible, loosening most of the sails, only leaving the top sails of each mast to remain capable of maneuvering without loosing a mast to the ruthless wind. His crew was partly high up in the sails, partly spreading out ropes over the decks to provide handholds, while others had crawled into the belly of the ship to take care of eventual holes and water.

The two new guys were up in the sails with the rest and were holding up – on the whole – quite nicely. He had picked them up in Port Royal, and they had proven to be quite capable around the boat. That was, what Hagener cared about. In fact, their manner of appearance hinted, that they might not have left Port Royal out of pure free will. However, even though he at times traded with the English, Hagener felt no love or obligation towards the British crown. And therefore, if there were two British citizens, leaving their country for reasons of their own, who was he to care? He had always been more of a merchant than of a politician. He transported goods, and that was the end to that.

Beyond that, considering the storm, it was probably wise to take the new ones in. There was no telling, how many lifes this storm would take.

"This is no ordinary storm", Will concluded, gripping the mast that was slippery from the rain. Elizabeth, sitting beside him, was busy winding a rope around her waist to catch her in case she should fall. Her movements were more confident, then any woman should have had the right to be in such a situation, but Will was not surprised.

She lifted her head and squinted into her rain-smeared surroundings. They could not see very far, the rain obstructed everything, but Will was right. The storm had fallen very quickly.

"Are you sure?" she asked, nonetheless, and the young blacksmith shrugged.

"Too fast, I would say. Too… strange."

"And what do you know of sailing?" she asked with a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Will pressed together his lips in annoyance.

"Who was it that called me a pirate?"

A call from below roused them to action, and soon they were shortening the sail, as the mast creaked suspiciously.

"And if it were no normal storm?" Elizabeth asked, disquieted. William once more shrugged, gritting his teeth as he lifted a part of the sail and secured it with another rope. Only then he turned towards her, facing her with dark eyes. Raindrops were hanging in his hair, in his lashes, on his face.

"Then maybe it was us, who called doom upon all of these good men."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. Yet, after what she had seen, much seemed possible.

* * *

They were flying. In the rush of the moment, nothing was important but the sound of the wind in their ears, the sting of the rain in their eyes, and the scent of the hunt, forged by the whisper, that seemed intrinsic to this storm like nothing else.

The waves were towering high, like rolling hills in a rainy, Scottish landscape, bringing somehow the notion of a faraway home to Theodore Almington. The captain stood on deck, surveying their approach through the sea, marvelling at the strength, with which the wind filled their sails, miraculously without threatening to tear them apart. He had raised all sails possible – lunacy, in a storm like this – but the whisper had calmed him, soothed him, and, as usual, his trust did not seem to wrongly placed.

They were making tremendous speed.

Theodore Almington did, in fact, not thoroughly enjoy following the command of the whisper. He did it, out of loyality, out of trust, and because he understood, that there were things, that had to be done by someone, and he proved to be the unfortunate someone, that, for today, would be up to the task of hunting down a young man and a young woman.

Nevertheless, thus racing through the storm, whipped by the winds and the whisper, he could, elusively, grasp something close to joy at their task, a proud laughter, that almost swept bitterness away.

Without turning around, he knew, that they were not the only ones in this chase. The storm, the real storm, was coming right behind them.

They say, that in every storm, there is the calm eye, where silence falls, like a prison, raging fire all around, yet calm blue sky in the middle, as if mocking the force of the elements, showing a piece of heaven right before crashing down again.

This storm was not one of that kind. This storm was, indeed, what someone unfamiliar with meteorological truths would have thought it to be – it got worse, the further inside one was.

But this was, as William Turner already so smartly realised, no ordinary storm. Far from it, to be honest.

Because the heart of this storm was a ship. It rode the waves and the winds without any effort, the crew acting with the calm, undisturbed confidence otherwise found only in members of the well-trained British Navy.

The sails were tattered, the belly of the ship rotten, as if it had come from the deep, not unlike the old, sunken ships pearl-divers would sometimes find ashore, telltale signs of earlier battles against the elements and other ships.

And yet, this ship was very much sailing, very much making progress, its crew acting as if it were one single man. If there had ever been a hunter, then they were.

Tangible, like mist or rain, the images of the two people were floating around them, a woman, with light brown hair and enormous eyes, a smile that swept away hearts and a determination well beyond her age and posture. And a man, calm, confident, tender, yet determined also, a whelp yet, but one, that could become a wolf.

Bring them down, the wind sang, and something about them joined the whisper. Bring them down. Kill them all!

* * *

When Elizabeth spotted the other ship, it was almost too late. They were moving through the storm as if intrinsic to it, while the "Hansestern" rolled and lolled, making it almost impossible to last up on the mast close to the sails. The winds were icy, and she could barely feel her hands any more. And yet it was only by accident, that she saw the "Mary of the seas" appearing behind her.

She had barely enough time to scream.

* * *

Captain Hagener heard the boy scream up on the mast, but it was too late to prevent what was already happening. A shot, a gunshot, tore the cacophony of winds around him, and then there was the impact, his ship lurching forward, sailors toppling over the deck, as they were slowly, but definitely toppling to the starboard side.

Cries told him, that there was water in the starboard cabins, but he knew already, because he knew the way that his ship reacted, and as he turned around, amidst the rain, he could see another ship, similar to his own, a merchant's ship, and yet, four cannons in sight near the bow of the opponend were telltale signs of their intent.

Hagener galvanized into action. The opponent was coming from the southeast, but he himself had been headed straight north, and he did not have time for a steering maneuver. The "Hansestern" was hardly armed, a few cannons on each side were all they had to sell their skin most dearly. But they did not carry much cargo at the moment. So salvation lay in speed.

* * *

„Down, girl!"

Amidst the cacophony of shots and wind, Anamaria found the time to yell at Susannah, who still stood erect aboard the Black Pearl, not even unfooted by the first salve of Norrington's guns, that had shaken the Pearl and left her swaying from side to side, while the crew tried to take up speed in the steadily strengthening wind. Anamaria had seen this before – like the mouse before the snake, frozen, unable to move – but the speed, with which the young woman galvanized into action, spoke lengths of her alertness at the moment. Whatever her reasons for standing upright had been, it had not been fear.

With a shake of her head, she realized, that there would be a great deal more days, that had to pass, before she could ever begin to understand the nature of the seeress Lucilla.

The object of her wonderment had, following her call, dived behind the rail, leaning against the wood, now hidden from the view and the cannons of the Dauntless. But when Anamaria, whose intention it had been to turn herself to the Fockmast where the raising of the sails went quite a bit too slow for her taste, looked into Lucilla's eyes, she realized, that she had been wrong.

The girl was nowhere near clear in that very moment. Here eyes were glazed, huge, and she was very plainly not seeing her. Nevertheless, she raised her hand, in something like a beckoning gesture, a finger calling her closer, the crude glove tattered around her hand.

It was madness, and the pirate knew it. But part of her – the part, that had known of the ghost ship the Black Pearl once was, the part, that had lived in the Caribbean long enough to know, that nothing was ever as easy as it seemed, could not escape from the unspoken call.

Awkwardly, keeping her head below the rail, she scrambled to Lucilla, following her demand.

„He is coming..." The young woman had brought her head close to Anamarias, black strands touching black curls, trembling, wavering in the wind, Lucilla's breath on her ear, as if she feared, that the storm might take the words from her lips and bring them to the wrong listener. „We must run... fast... far..."

She brought an arm around the mulatto woman, pressing her close to herself, trembling like a leaf, yet with acting with surprising strength.

„A green storm always brings with it the hunt... the Hunter is riding these seas, it is riding these seas, and we do not want to come between him and his prey..."

They stared at each other, wildly the younger, confusedly the other. But then, Anamaria raised her head above the rail.

The storm had drawn closer. And the clouds were so thick, obscuring the sun, that from the angle in which she was standing, they appeared to be almost green.

„Oh my god", Anamaria mouthed, then, turning to Lucilla, who was, still dazedly, leaning against the rail, „I am getting Jack."

* * *

„What do you see?"

Elizabeth pressed herself against the stern rail, while William, clinging to the decorations of the belly of the ship, looked out towards their pursuers, who had almost reached the same height as they did, steering towards their starboard side. He squinted through the pouring rain to get a closer glimpse of their opponent. This was, he was almost sure, no ordinary pirate ship.

The bow was decorated with a figure, a woman, the flowing hair mingling with the wood of the boat. Color, that was already waning, and a proud writing on the side.

It was difficult to read with the ship rocking, but the script was large, and finally he was sure to have gotten it.

„Mary of the seas", he told Elizabeth, when he came back, only with difficulty climbing back into the ship.

„What?" She stared at him, eyes wide, and he was unprepared for the look of terror, that momentarily crossed her face.

„Elizabeth... what is it?"

She swallowed hard.

„This is the ship that brought her to Port Royal."

No necessity to tell, whom she was talking about.

„Oh my god", William whispered. „We have brought doom upon these sailors..."

* * *

The first sail to tear was the top fock sail, which was, considering the possibilities, propably the least gruesome of them all. Yet it showed Captain Hagener more than anything else, that he was riding the limits closely. Very closely. It was extremely difficult to gain the most possible speed out of that storm, because right beyound the point for optimum speed lay the point, where one of the sails was breaking. At least, he wondered, the wind was quite steady, another of the oddities, that added up for this storm to be an extremely improbable occurence.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel what was going on.

Susannah had lost all senses of where, or even who she was, clinging to the rail of the Black Pearl for dear life, trying to make sense of the very personal storm, that was assaulting her, while the very real wind was coming closer and closer to where Jack Sparrow and Norrington were engaged in their personal battle. The Black Pearl was holding herself up quite nicely, but they were not escaping quickly enough for Susannah's taste. She had a vague feeling of distance, of distance between her and something that was coming, and that distance was dwindling with frightening speed.

The hunt was on a chase, but not for her. And yet, she felt they might be caught in between the lines of fire, between hunter and prey, as she had so carefully put it. The prey was not far off, approaching, trying to escape the storm with all its might, and this leading the hunter closer to them, ever closer.

She might have reacted differently to that, had she known – or better – been able to understand, that the prey were Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner of Port Royal, who were traveling in disguise on the unfortunate merchant's ship, now followed by the crew of the „Mary of the seas", and worse. She had an ill sense of foreboding, of a spiral coming closer to its breaking point, and she was afraid of what would happen then. A tug in her breast, unfamiliar, frightening, threatened to take control, to bring forth urges that had been alien to her before, and yet, she knew, that once the storm were fully upon them, she would be unable to resist.

* * *

The storm was getting worse by the minute. The „Mary of the seas" apparently had less trouble keeping to their side, but the high waves hindered even her from coming close enough for the crew to change ships and to wreak havoc among the crew of the „Hansestern". Hagener was very determined for things to remain that way, and so he jerked around the ship, chasing his crew high up on the mast to change the sails, switched directions and used every trick he could ever think of to keep the „Mary of the seas" at bay. Thank heavens, that they only possessed a few, small cannons, and even though they had fired them several times, their aim had not been overly precise – probably due to the heavy weather – and they had not yet inflicted much damage.

Elizabeth and Will were in the takelage again, clinging onto the ropes for dear life, when it was again the governor's daughter, her keen eyes straying to the back of the ship, who saw what was approaching.

A shadow, at first, black against the green-gray of the clouds and the rain, appearing, when thy were nearign the top of a wave, disappearing again, as soon as they toppled down into another valley. A ship, on second glance, large, surprisingly sturdy, and very, very quickly gaining ground.

She uttered a warning, towards Will first, towards the ship later.

Dread rained on her, like the pouring rain.

* * *

Norrington had managed to nearly corner Jack Sparrow. He had had enough time to plan this next encounter with the pirate captain, and he had made good use of it. A couple of cunning maneuvers, well aimed shots, and the Black Pearl was not nearly as quick and as agile as she had been any more.

Susannah Delanney had vanished from his sight, and he was back to his usual, commanding self. There would be no mercy with pirates.

Not even with the likes of her.

He had seen the storm approaching, quicker, admittedly, than he had thought, but it would aid him more in his plan then it would hinder him. The Dauntless was sturdy, which had lately been her disadvantage, but therefore she was also difficult to unsettle.

When the storm was finally upon them, however, things happened quickly, and all at once.

A ship was passing them, a merchant's ship sailing under the Hanse flag, in a frantic flight, turning towards the Black Pearl, part of its sails tattered, exhibiting heavy list and swaying in the wind. They were quickly pursued by another vessel, not unlike the first in built and size, yet faster and more elegant, riding with the wind instead of being toy to it.

And then, in an instant, all hell broke loose.

* * *

Lightning tore the sky apart and thunder rolled between them, a deafening crash that shook earth and clouds alike. Rain poured down in great waves, the deck became more slippery and wet by the minute. The ship rolled, toppled over, and Norrington lost his footing, crashing down hard. Something in his shoulder snapped as he slipped towards the rail, only with the utmost luck bringing his feet in front, so he could avoid crashing into the banister with full force.

He scrambled back to a stand, squinting through the rain. Around him, chaos reigned.

A shadow passed them in a rage, loud as a thunderous roar, and only moments afterwards he understood, that it was another ship, with blackened planks and grey sails. Shadows were moving on its deck, and above all, ridiculously, was a flag flying, the proud Union Jack, signifier of the Royal Navy.

Then, random images only. Himself, screaming commands, that nobody heard. Gunshots, ships, the storm that shook them with all their might. Lieutenant Groves, as a vicious wave washed him overboard. One of the ships, sinking, the mast lying in the water, the screams of the people everywhere. Susannah Delanney, standing on the deck of the battered Pearl, screaming orders to a wind that tore the words from her lips ere they were even uttered.

A face on the shadow of a ship, haunted, sunken cheeks, and yet familiar, a painful tug of memory in his chest, but swept away, because in the storm, not even thoughts could withstand.

He was falling, sinking, heared the faraway scream „Man overboard" and did not even understand they meant him.

Later, he thought, that maybe it was a grace, that he did not see the end of it.


	32. Drift

A/N: Yes, I know, slow updates, but time does not permit otherwise at the moment.

This contains the ongoing journey of Elizabeth Swann and William Turner – enjoy.

PS: For those of you who like riddles, I give away the title of the presumable next chapter, so you can guess what it is about: „The anatomy of a downfall".

Any ideas:-D

Greetz

Spirit

* * *

**Chapter 31**

**Adrift**

She was drowning in darkness for she did not know how long.

In her dreams, images chased one another, and she was back in the rigging of the mast aboard the Hansestern, holding on for dear life, clinging, her fingers painfully cramping around ropes, wood and cloth.

Thunder and lightning roared around her, and she did not know whether the shuddes, that ran through her unsteady high seat, were due to the impact of cannons, due to the storm, due to the waves, but there was nothign she could see, nothing, that she could have done beyound pure survival.

She remembered, dimly, that finally, the tortured wood had given in, and the mast had splintered, remembered falling, falling, and tehn blackness surrounding her, blackness, followed by cold, cold dreams.

There was a whisper in her dreams, words, in an endless, beseeching row, again and again, neverending circle, and when she slowly crept to awareness from the vaults beneath, she realized that it was her name she was hearing, over and over again.

„Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth..."

Waking up was pure pain. Her throat was sore, and her face burned with the myriad salt crystals that had remained there when the water dried off. Some of them had evidently also gotten into her eyes, and they were stinging as she attempted to blink, her lashes sticking together, tearing painfully.

The murmuring stopped and she forced open her eyes, only to close them again to the Caribbean sun she was directly looking into, but the short moment of sight was enough to drag her back to awareness.

„Are you..."

She would have recognized that voice immediately, raspy as it was, and even the smile, that crept unto her features unbidden, hurt, as the skin complained abuse by sun and salt.

„Will..."

Water on her face, a wet hand on her cheek. She tried to turn her head to where she estimated the speaker to be, the muscles of her neck complaining violently. Only bit by bit she realized, how beaten and battered she was indeed. Every movement, every breath seemed to be pure torture. No wonder, she mused. She had fallen down from the mast and was bound to have some bruises remaining from there.

She forced open her eyes once more, now turned away from the sun and looked at a very welcome, very familiar face close to her own.

Will Turner smiled, albeit wanly, when Elizabeth met his gaze. His face was red, crusted with salt, as was his hair, but his eyes had lost nothing of either warmth or kindness.

„Welcome back", he whispered.

Something was softly rocking her, and slowly she became aware of the fact, that she was lying on something hard, unyielding, that was wet, not covered in water, but wet, moisture reaching her back and her sides, but not her belly, where all water had been dried off by the sun.

She was lying on a piece of wood, presumably some part of some ship, and William was half propped up on it, too, his feet in the water, his upper body out of it. He had leaned towards her, and the concern in his brown eyes was evident. He touched her face, her cheeks, her forehead, with the utmost care, as if to convince himself, that she was still living, still breathing, that her skin was, in fact, still warm.

„Will", she repeated, drowsily, raising an unsteady hand to return his gesture. Fleetingly he closed his eyes, the smile taking on a note of adoration. „... where are we?"

The smile vanished, and he sighed.

„I do not know, love", he confessed, softly. „We are at sea."

Elizabeth bit back the retort, that this was obvious, because, in fact, even though it might have been obvious by her own observations, it was not to be taken for granted. The last thing she remembered was falling down of the mast of the „Hansestern", or else, of the mast falling down with her, and of what had happened between now and then, she had no clue. It would have to do with Will, definitely, and thus he did not deserved any spite she might feel in that moment.

„I take it... you saved me... again", she rasped, every word pure torture through her sour throat. She did not ask for water. She knew that there was none.

„Did we really count?" he asked with a small smile, and she shook her head, wincing, because she felt a wave of nausea creeping up at the movement. Will frowned, but refrained from asking whether she was all right. It was painfully obvious that she was not.

Yet, this did not stop her from being her usual, inquisitive self, and as she reopened her eyes, watching him again, she seemed to be more alert, if anything, questioning.

„What happened after I..." she let it hang in the air, no need to say what she meant. Will, clinging to the wood and treading water, sighed softly.

„I do not know in full, Elizabeth. The storm was upon us, everything was upside down. We were pursued by two different vessels, I think. One was the „Mary of the seas", the ship, that as you say, brought Lady Halvery to us. The other..." He trailed off, uneasily smacking his lips. She tried to sit up, but he stilled her with a careful hand. Elizabeth complied, dissatisfied, but unable to do something else, since her head had begun to swim again. William continued, on his own accord, after only a moment's consideration.

„I did not get a clear look on it. Maybe it was, because of the clouds and the rain. I would very much like to think that."

„But you do not", she concluded. He had never been able to truly hide things from her, and so he agreed, if grudgingly.

„I do not know, why", William mused. „But there was something odd about this ship. I could hardly see it, even if I tried, as if it were escaping my gaze... I know, it sounds odd!"

He sounded a bit defensive at Elizabeth's raised eyebrow, but her soothing hand on his promised, that she believed him nonetheless. He relaxed, as far as he could, in his uncomfortable position. He did not know, how much time he had spent propped up like this, waiting for his fiancee to wake. Hours, probably.

„It was black and grey", he said, thoughtfully. „And you know what the singularly strange thing was about it?"

She raised her brows in curiosity and he sighed.

„I am sure", William Turner mused, „that it was bearing a british flag."

For some instances, there was no sound except for the lapping of waves, the soft hustle of the wind in their ears. She stared at him in wonder and he looked back, unable to say any more than he did, yet feeling, as if he should shake his head at the lunacy of it.

„A british flag", Elizabeth echoed, at length, as if she were unable to believe.

„Yes", Will replied, almost miserably. „Although I do not know, what to make of this. They came upon us like the storm itself. Whirls. Shadows. It was hell, Elizabeth. Do you remember?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there were the remnants of terror, of screams, of darkness unyielding, and she nodded, weakly.

„I do."

He passed a soothing hand over her forehead, his hand trembling slightly with the effort there was in it.

„We raced I do not know, where", Will continued, softly. „And shortly before you fell, I saw, that there were two ships in front of us, engaged in a battle of their own, amid the storm.

Elizabeth frowned.

„Still more ships?"

The young blacksmith nodded.

„And I am not sure about it, Elizabeth, but I think, it might have been the Dauntless and the Black Pearl."

That was the final straw that brought her back to full wakefulness. Her eyes were wide, and when she sat up this time, she did not give in to weakness.

„You cannot be serious."

„I am, Elizabeth." For an instance, he sounded very, very tired. „I am."

Sitting up gave her a good look on her surroundings, beyound Will and the small piece of wood she had been lying on. Not, that there was much to look at. They were adrift on a thankfully calm sea, the horizon in all directions declaring that they were indeed, completely and utterly lost, on their own and deserted. The sun was burning down on them, draining what moisture they still had in their bodies. She was thirsty, but she did not bother to ask for water. There was none, without that everpresent salt.

„Oh my god, Will", she whispered, suddenly gripped by fear. „What are we going to do?"

* * *

Night came quickly, and with it came thoughts unbidden. The sky was clear, with a silver moon and glorious stars, and not a drop of rain to be faling down upon the two people adrift on the sea.

They had talked at first, sweating in the afternoon sun, but still sharing thoughts to chase away the fear, but shortly before the sun touched the horizon, there were no more words to ward off the inevitable.

William's skin had grown more grey throughout the day, a pale exhaustedness shining through tan and sunburn, and the grip of his hands on the little piece of driftwood had loosened.

Elizabeth had volonteered – frequently – to change places, to offer her place on the wood to him, if only for a few minutes, so he could rest while she traded water, but he had been adamant about this and stayed where he was, falling back on his last resources, and Elizabeth could see, that his strength was waning.

Not that lying, or, for the moment, sitting on their makeshift boat, was comfortable enough to truly rest. Her limbs were stiff and she seemed to feel bruises everywhere.

By the time that the stars came out, she was shivering with cold.

They drifted in silence, in and out of sleep, a dozing state of exhaustion. Both had long since stopped to spy out for land.

The temperature fell quickly out here on the water, and with a shock, teh governor's daughter realized in a waking moment, that William's lips had turned blue.

„Will?"

He did not react, on first calling, so she did so again, more frantic, more worried, shaking his shoulder until he opened is eyes, unfocused at first, then, with effort, concentrating on her.

„My love", he said, tenderly. Elizabeth swallowed.

„What do we do now?"

His lids were dropping again, but he was definitely trying to stay awake.

„I do not know..." His admittance of defeat was barely audible. „I do not know..."

„Do you think, that they were coming for us?"

She was not sure, whether she asked this because she really wanted to know, or whether she wanted to keep him awake, wanted to prevent him from sinking deeper into that drowse of his. He shivered, his hand tightening on hers.

„I fear so", he whispered. „Though I do not know, what it was."  
„To imagine, that a year ago, I would have laughed at a story of ghosts to be true."

There was the hint of a smile dancing around his lips, tired, exhauted.

„Indeed. We also would have smiled at other things"

„We have to go to England, Will. We have to go to London. We must find out what is behind this."

He tried to pull himself up a bit, his legs executing two, weak strokes to give them speed before he drifted again, all his strength gone again.

„I will do what I can." He sounded tired beyound words, and still, he tried to joke.

Silence fell again, and everything was cold around.

* * *

Jeffrey Blackbird was, on the whole, glad about the way the day had turned out. During midday, when they were sailing towards the north making good speed, he had been forced not only to slow down, but to actually turn around. The crows nest had spied a storm ahead, and when later, the greenish grey clouds had come into view of the deck crew as well, Blackbird had understood, that this was no thing to be taken lightly and had changed course, cursing inwardly at the loss of time, that seemed to be inevitable.

He was not, like a merchant, in the ever present hurry under the whip of some trading company or other – the East India company was especially well known to be ruthless on that account – but this very day, he would have preferred not to be delayed.

A buccaneers life was comfortable, mostly, but when an order came, then action had to come swiftly.

He had recieved a message today, this morning, when he still was laying anchor in one of the smaller ports around, and had set sail immediately. Pay was good, and who, with pay, bought the loyality of Jeffrey Blackbird, could be sure not to have his trust misplaced.

There were those, in the ports, among the pirates and scoundrels, that wondered, why he should turn agains his own people. But in fact, Jeffrey did not harbor quite such a fondness for the rainy north european island in which his cradle had stood more than fifty years ago.

Life of a fisherman's son could be hard, and when taxes and a harsh winter had taken both his parents, Jeffrey had set sail never to come back.

The Spanish, indeed, were as good as any other employer, and so, Blackbird was after the Union Jack.

After being diverted by the storm, Jeffrey had, only hours later, turned back towards his original course, only to stumble upon the evident remnants of a battle. Dark had already fallen, as pieces of driftwood, barrels, small objects, too light to sink glid by, telltale signs of a tragedy gone. Blackbird estimated for at least two ships to be destroyed and frowned softly. Apparently he had done very much right to evade the storm.

It was by pure coincidence, that he noticed the one piece of driftwood, that carried upon himself the sleeping form of Miss Elizabeth Swann, with William Turner clinging to her and the makeshift boad just this side of unconciousness, weariness overpowering him, so that he was barely able to react.

He had not even noticed the ship before it was upon him.

Blackbird was, for all his attitude of a scoundrel, some sort of a man of honor on sea. One needed, even in the Caribbean, a damn good reason to leave castaways to their fate. The weather and the sea were too unpredictable, everybody knew painfully well that they could be the next.

And thus, it was Jeffrey Blackbird, who saved the two voyagers from the seas.

Both of them were extremely exhausted, drained from the cold, shivering, as they were put into cots, blankets wrapped around them to keep them warm.

He learned quickly that they were british, because the woman whispered in a sleep, words of fear, unintelligible in their meaning, yet very clearly spoken in english language, and in the manner of speaking, she betrayed, that she was well bred, nobility probably.

Upon learning this, he smiled. They would prove to be excellent pawns to the spanish.

Fernando Castellano would be pleased.

* * *

When Elizabeth woke up, sun tickling her nose but not burning her face any more, she could not remember, how she had come to be where she was. She found herself in a makeshift cot on a bench in what was apparently a captain's workplace, charts, pens, candles scattered all over the place. She only slowly regained wakefulness, her face still hurting fromthe remnants of a sunburn, and so, it took her quite a while to realize, that she was completely on her own.

William Turner was nowhere to be seen.

In a sudden verge of panic, she leaped up, fighting down the slight dizziness that threatened to seize her, and stormed towards the door.

Beyound that was the sunlit deck of a small, yet well-kept ship. Her presence was marked almost immediately, and since she realized, that she did not have any means of escape, she squared her shoulders and straighetened her chin. Gazes lay heavily on her, but none approached her.

„My lady."

The voice was rough, yet definitely british, with a wales singsong melody in his speech, and it was coming from left of her. She wheeled around to find herself faced by a small, sturdy man with black hair and a well-trimmed beard, clever grey eyes wandered over her figure, as if estimating her. He was wearing quite clean clothes, breeches, a lont jacked as it was custom about those sailors that had gained a bit of wealth on the way, a tricorn hat on his head confirming what she had already thought – that he was the captain of this vessel.

Her patience, however, was wearing thin.

„Where is Will?" she snapped, and her opponent sighed softly, a smile playing around his lips.

„Still sleeping, I suppose, if that is the young man you are travelling with.", he answered, and Elizabeth nodded inwardly towards her estimation, that the guy from Wales. „I have not been notified yet of his awakening."

„Who are you", she blurted out and saw a moment of consideration wandering through his eyes, but then, he lifted his head to give a tiny bow.

„Jeffrey Blackbird at your service. Well, actually Llewellyn ap Ygnyffadd, but I do want to spare you the effort."

A small twitch of the mouth that could have been a smile or a mock.

„Are you a pirate?"

Now it was definitely a smile.

„Quite to the point, are you, young lady? But rest assured, no, I am none of them, at least not in the sense of the word, that you might have in mind. I will not harm you in any way if that is what you are worried about."

„I'm not", she snapped, and for an instance, she saw acknowledgement of her fierceness in his eyes, but that was gone all to soon, and Jeffrey watched her, hands clapped behind his back.

„That is extraordinarily courageous of you. I assume, we all can be civilized about this situation, can we?"

„Civilized?" Elizabeth echoed, astounded, and was rewarded with a sigh.

„Young lady, just to point out to you several facts of your current situation. While you have not given me your name yet, rest assured, that I am fully aware of the fact that you are, indeed, at least of nobility. I am, in plain words, a buccaneer, working for the Spanish, and you will, no doubt, be very valuable in their hands. Someone – if you forgive my words – will be missing his pearl, I daresay."

Elizabeth snorted in disgust. In fact, she was not sure that her father had even noticed she had gone msising. And if she had, then Crystabella had probably driven that thought from his mind right away.

Crystabella... her thoughts were chasing one another. She had, after all, been spanish. Maybe this turn of events was not for the worst – even though she had no idea of how she should get to London then.

„What about Will?"

„That depends on who „Will" is."

„He is my fiancee", Elizabeth snapped, almost immediately regretting it. Yet, there was no turning back now. The astonishment in his eyes was evident.

„He is? That is surprising indeed."

Elizabeth snorted again.

„You're british. Whyever did you find yourself at a spanish leash?"

For a moment, the captain dropped his gaze to the floor, and when he looked back to her, there was nothing left of his former kindness. Indeed, the grey eyes had turned to steel in the twinkling of an eye.

„That, my lady, is, as I hate to say, none of your business, and you would do well to remind yourself of your position aboard this ship."  
Only a look of him, and she was dragged back into the cabin, strong, yet not ungentle, against all her kicking and insulting, and Blackbird only watched, his mouth twisting in what might have been amusement.


	33. Triangulation

A/N: Yes, I know it's been a while. But there is a reason. I have found a very nice beta for this story, for the german translation however, and she agreed to beta not only orthography (again of the german version) but also the storyline itself – which meant that I had to catch up with my translation, so that now the chapters are appearing at the same time in english and german...

so, sorry for the delay, now, that I can work on the new chapters again, things will get more speedy...

* * *

Chapter 32

Triangulation

Commodore Norrington's return to wakefulness was nowhere near as peaceful as Elizabeth's had been. He woke with a jolt when he felt a sharp sting of pain in his side, tearing him out of an oblivion that he would all too soon describe as being blissful, for it was the last moment of peace that James Norrington would know for quite a long time.

He curled up instinctively, for that part of his conciousness, that had awoken to full alertness on the spot, had already realized, that something – someone, maybe – was prodding him in the side, and that it was very probable, that he would do so again.

He was rewarded for this semi-concious action with a sharp pain in his back – a kick.

He tasted blood, moments later realizing the sting on his tongue, that told of his reaction towards the unexpected pain. Coughing, he shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts, while he crawled on hand and feet, to evade another of the aggressive moves towards him.

He regretted his movement almost immediately. Thousand small wounds sprang into protesting action, his skin burning all over, remnants of sand and salt burning like fire in his lungs. On the edge of his alertness, he heard a chuckle, low, but gleeful, and tried to force his body back under control.

„Looka dat navyman." He squinted open his eyes at the sound of this voice, deep and resoundant, yet full of malice, a spiteful glee at the sight of another's peril. The speaker was a sturdy-built man of inconcievable age. The majority of his face was hidden beneath a bushy black beard, while his body was mostly covered in an exquisite mixture of cloth, dirt and more inconcievable things, that Norrington as unable to decipher at the moment. „Tot'ly ran down", the stranger continued rambling, as Norrington swallowed bitter bile. His memory only slowly returned to wakefulness, but the few things that bubbled up into his active mind, were enough to feel his stomach cramp.

The Dauntless... heavens...

„He-ho", cried the man before him, squattering down beside him as James tried to bring his revolting body back under control. „That be an officer uniform, eh?" He chuckled, and Norrington cursed inwardly. The one situation he had never wanted to get himself into. He tried to get onto his feet, but it was too late, because his unwanted companion had also jumped to his side and dragged him to his feet, as waves of nausea attacked him, and he was dragged, unwillingly, yet unable to resist, across sand, then across uneven soil.

James Norrington very soon realized, that he was, indeed, very much in trouble. His companion, who, if the shouts of his compagnons were anything to judge by, went by the name of Humphrey, had dragged him back to a makeshift camp on the shores of an island. Around a fire that apparently burned down through the night, there was squattering a gang of ten, a bottle of rum passing leisurely between them. Most of them were in a similar state as Humphrey was, run-down, covered in dirt, the image of repulsive piratery as he had seen it since the day he had decided to join the Navy and rid these waters of the plague that shook them since the europeans had first come to this place.

Pirates...

He tried to feel spite, but all, that there was, was a certain numbness, shock, that was, as far as he could tell, for the mometn still protecting him. He was barely able to stand, barely able to breathe, and so he did not resist, when they tied him to one of the palm trees around, before turning towards each other, continuing to pass the rum, bickering in the afternoon sun. They had wrought a rope around his wrists, wringing it around the tree so he could move, but not escape.

* * *

He tried to tell himself, that he was fortunate. While they had recognized him for being a navy officer, they had not recognized the Commodore of the Caribbean fleet. Had they done so, this would have surely ended his life there and then, but as of now, there was still time, to think of something, to find a way.

There was, as James Norrington admitted, a certain irony in this situation. He seemed to be only the next in a row of Port Royal inhabitants, who, willingly or not, mingled with pirates, and who had to rely on cunning alone to escape peril alive.

Five minutes later, he was quite sure, that he would have preferred to have been found and captured by the invincible Captain Jack Sparrow.

They had begun to laugh among themselves, to congratulate each other for the great catch that they had made, and James soon realized, that they were talking about him. He listened, as intently as he could, with his limbs protesting, and his legs barely being able to hold his weight, soon realizing, that it was not only simple pirates he had ended up with.

The men, who currently held him captured were slave traders, apparently paid by the Portugese. They spent quite some time debating, whether it would be wise to strip him of his uniform – to make his rank and origin unknown – or whether his profession and nationality would make him all the more valuable to their potential customers. The conversation was hard to follow, not only because of the mists of pain, that still clouded his thoughts, but also because of the strange dialect they spoke, a mixture of various languages that was difficult to deceipher.

For the moment, James Norrington succumbed to utter exhaustion.

He sank to the floor and gave in to sleep.

* * *

As darkness claimed him,dreams came unbidden.

He dreamed of the day on the fort, of all of the fear. Oh, how he was barely able to speak, as her eyes were on him, watching him, with interest, but detachment, but he knew, that all of his attempts were futile, and loss, loss claimed him so much. He felt torn, battered, and then he fell, like she did, that day, only that this time it was him, that was taken by the sea, and the last thing that he saw before the waves took him away was Elizabeth, gazing down at him, but it was not Elizabeth any more, but the calm, inexpressive face of Susannah Delanney, and she tossed his father's ring after him to be swallowed by the sea.

He dreamed of the Black Pearl, its sails torn in the wind, a force moving her that he could not discern. The wind was icy, and the fog carried specters, but he came forth like the navyman he was, assaulted the dread as if it were just another enemy to be conquered. He felt something gripping him, as he was, all of a sudden, standing in a cave, icy, painfully, that midshipman, that had married the irish woman throwing himself before him, but it was to no avail, because first Delanney was taken, and then himself, and blackness engulfed him and then there was nothing more.

And finally, he dreamed of a voice, of strange syllables, one following the others, and he knew not whether to be comforted or disquieted by that sound, because it engulfed him, lulled him, beckoned him, but it was steel under silk, and the face surrounded by black curls was oh so scared, so scared, as if what was on the verge of taking him would take him also, and he felt the urge to do something, but he knew, that there were things that were far beyound his capabilities, and so he swam, and swam and swam, swallowing water, everything hurting, until he did not even remember, who he was.

He awoke with Susannah's name on his lips.

* * *

„Susannah, eh?"

He was being tugged, and Humphrey's breath, as he bowed over the Commodore to tear the marks of his rank off his jacket with a knife, smelled like a reopened grave. He still felt awful, albeit a bit better, yet, he was still tied to the tree, and his hands had begun to go numb. The reality of his perilous situation came back upon him, chasing away specters of the dream that might have been there, but Humphrey, of course, was not so easily to be averted. „Gotta chick back home?"

The gentleman in Norrington, that had been trained in the finer aspects of society, was on the verge of defending a young lady's honor, but he ultimately decided against it, and resorted himself to an icy glare, hopeful, that this would ward off the prying pirate. Humphrey shrugged, apparently nonplussed. „Have't yer way. Mussaf been sim time, if ye remember her when me is coming here." He chuckled, and Norrington felt shame and anger creeping into his cheeks, filling them with crimson color.

The pirate completed his task in silence, and James, even though very tempted to ask what the were planning to do with him, decided against it as well. There was nothing he could do to change their mind, apparently, and he opted for simply waiting for his chance.

He took a closer look around. Now, that he felt more awake – even though evening had come, and he knew night to fall quickly in the Caribbean – he was able to find away out of the mess he had gotten himself into.

A ship was laying in the small bay that hosted the slave traders' camp, not very large, yet capable of sailing the oceans. They had reached the shore by means of two small rowing boats that had been pushed onto the beach, where the tide would not reach it.

James Norrington wondered, whether it would be possible to escape thus.

He had no idea, where he had landed. He could roughly place their last position of course, before he had begun to pursue Sparrow by riding the storm that was behind them – a singularly stupid idea, now that he thought about it.

The revelation hit, indeed, like a hammer.

It had been a singularly stupid idea to endanger himself thus. The Dauntless was sturdy-built, yes, but by unloading many of the cannons, he had destabilized her, willingly, for the sake of speed. When she had come into the storm however, he had paid for this dearly. He had wanted to catch Sparrow, by any means necessary, by any trouble necessary, and he had brought nothing but destruction because of it.

Only slowly, memories of the last moments came back like the crashing tide.

Groves shouting orders, his eyes betraying a panic that his voice did not show.

A sailor falling down into the water, then another. Wood splintering, an ear-deafening crack. The Dauntless rolling over to the side.

And then water, salt on his lips, and treading water, all hell above and beyound him, and all receded into the mist.

He had seen no signs of the Dauntless since, and apparently, neither had the pirates.

He remembered Groves vanishing, remembered good men being buried by the falling mast. Wood cracking, as all the memories added up to the final conclusion that left him breathless, thoughtless, trembling, his battered hands gripping the ropes that held him.

There was no denying that they were gone.

And, beyound this, that it was all its fault.

He would have loved to sink back into oblivion right now, even if it were for a vague promise of tangled dreams, even if it were for the strange faces he had seen, but fate did not grand him that mercy.

And so, as the fires died down, reduced to glowing embers, as all pirates curled down to sleep, James Norrington fell, fell, with guilt and regret tearing down all of his defenses, and had any of the pirates looked up that night, they would have seen bitter tears on the navyman's cheeks, as he hung in the ropes that held him, but none looked and none learned.

* * *

When, well into the morning, the sun had already climbed the sky and the smugglers finally awoke, they realized, that their prisoner was gone. Not that they had payed much attention – they had not even bothered with putting up a watch, an action that now proved to lack a certain wisdom, but that was not regretted, nonetheless. The disappearance of the Navyman was duly remarked and mourned, but Humphrey knew well, that he could have been trouble. Mixing with the officials of any country could, by his own experience, only lead to trouble. Might well be that the presence of an english navyman would have been cherished in one or the other spanish colony, a victim of war like there were quite many, a precious pawn to show at afternoon parties. But with soldiers, you never knew. There were those, who gave in to their fate. And there were those, who simply refused to fall.

By these standarts, maybe leaving him out unsurveilled in the night had been some sort of a test. But their unwilling guest had not given in but instead found a way to liberate himself, as the ropes, lying on the floor, so adequately told. Meaning, that he would have been a load of trouble anyway.

Humphrey and his comrades, men, that knew well that fate gave and fate took, only shrugged at this new, different turn of events.

A shame it was, but well then, what wasn't?

* * *

James Norrington had forgotten about the nastiness of jungles. That was one of the advantages of being a navyman. The sea was harsh mistress enough, so he usually did not have to put up against the green hell, that covered many of the islands around him. He had been in one or two of them, but he had forgotten about how much he had hated it.

He had forgotten quite many a thing, recently.

Had he been able to see himself in this moment, his sweaty, tangled, so very improper appearance, he would have remarked, that he was the image of somebody in shock, somebody whose mind was driven beyound the point of rationality, but he had forgotten about rationality, forgotten about propriety.

He had desperately tried to forget what had happened in the storm, and had lost much on the way.

He had not forgotten what was familiar about the island that he had ended up upon. It was the Isla de Vicence, a small place not far off Jamaican coast, though at the opposite part of the mainland. He had been here before, twice, though both of it had been some time ago. Still a Lieutenant aboard the Dauntless

... my god... the Dauntless...

he had been here as a cover-up for a delegation of the East India Trading company, who had been very interested in the pearls, that the natives on the northern part of the island were fishing out of the sea on a regular basis. Rumor had spread of the quality and beauty of these pearls, and the Company had, naturally, taken an interest in them. But it had been shortly after the loss of the Kellerman expedition to another tribe of the Carribbean, and the Trading Company had been nervous enough to ask for backup by the navy.

It had been quite unnecessary, though. The Haipu proved to be an extremely peaceful tribe, their houses, located farther towards the heart of the islands, were nestled between trees and were telltale signs, that this tribe had not known threat for a very long time. The medicine man had been quite smart, though. He had recognized the greed in the eyes of the merchants, and had made quite good use for it to strike a hard bargain. Norrington dimly remembered to have hidden a smile. It was not, as if the merchant had been the most pleasant of persons.

But these memories were long gone, were memories of a time, when he was still young, still idealistic, when neither pressure nor failure had imprinted its mark upon his back.

But nevertheless, he had recognized the bay, the characteristic shoreline. He had to be only a few hours path from the native village. And there, hope was good, that a ship might drop by to gather pearls, and therefore might pick him up to bring him back to civilization. And thus he had fled, when the smugglers slept, wriggling his hands out of the tightly wound knots and creeping away, silently, heart pounding, yet unhindered.

A strange silence lay over the jungle. As if everything were holding its breath, watching the passing intruder, that stumbled through the endless green. It was never bright in these worlds of dimming shadows, where tangled wood seemed to show him the way instead of him choosing his path. But even a british sailor could understand, that, like the wind, the jungle was a being that never fully bent to his will.

Once, he stumbled upon a stream, murky water flowing lazily, the adjoinging trees kissing the surface with their branches, but the forest led him away again, with only the slightest hint of orientation, where he was going.

The jungle had a thousand eyes. James Norrington felt being watched, being called even, a strange sense of detached uneasiness, the silence and the observance weighing like lead on his shoulders. The plants were forming images, the wind was talking in whispers.

He fell into a trod, a walk, that was barely self-concious, a mechanical movement that placed one foot before the other, no matter where it would lead him in the end. He felt dazed, overtired, and lost sense of time, as shadows begann to engulf him in a caress.

When he regained his senses, he was not far from the village. He passed one of the traps the natives used to attract animals and recognized them, opening his eyes with a vague sense of having dreamt. There was the fading images of a gaze on his again, of curiosity and sadness, but the notion slipped through his finger and the protection of his dreamy state waned in the end.

By the time he reached the village he was dreaming again, but the images before his eyes were the ghosts that he had called himself.

* * *

At night, dreams came again.

He dreamt of the last battle of the Dauntless, of the deaths around him one by one, and this time, his mind did not allow him the grace of oblivion before the end of it. He stood in a murky cave, green light all around, and looked into familiar faces, all of them whispering. All your fault, they said, and they mocked his pride and his determination, accused him for his vain behavior, laughed and whispered, and blamed, until he could take it no more and begged for mercy, but then he awoke and there was nothing but the ceiling above him, as if nothing had changed. But, James Norrington knew, everything had.

Sitting on the porch of his cottage that he had been placed into, looking up into the stars, James Norrington realized, that he was afraid to sleep, because he knew, he could not take the dreams.

* * *

Days were peaceful in the small village. He had talked to the medicinman – astonishingly still the same that he knew from years before – who had understood his situation and had allowed him to stay. He spoke very few fragments of english, but apparently he understood Norringtons words, since he fulfilled his request for an opportunity to stay and wait for the next ship without any apparent uncertainty. And thus he was allowed to wait, and kept to himself mostly, walking the beaches and thinking, the pain of his own failure growing worse by the day. Maybe, a wise man, and the magician of the tribe prided himself to be a wise man, should have told him to stop pondering, but he harbored neither fondness nor pity for those, who took pride in being british, and Norrington, for all of his ragged appearance, was still british to the core, behavior and all.

Maybe, if giving in to impulse, he would not have even allowed him to stay. But the medicine man was wise, and he knew better than that.

He waited a week, a long, endless, hellish week full of ponderings, questions, tortures, before a ship appeared. By that time, he had formulated countless ways of explaining himself to the Governor, to his superior officers, to Gillette, who had remained in Port Royal, to anyone, in fact, who would listen, but he had found, that words fled each time, and that for all of his eloquence and experience in military reports, this conversation, that was long beyound anything, that he ever thought himself capable of.

From time to time, he watched the children of the village playing, as they, mostly naked, wildly roamed the jungle close to the village and the beach as well, inventing games of their owns with whatever things they could find. He marveled at their carelessness and tried to remember a time where he had been that free, that bereft of all worries, and he was not sure, whether there had been any.

* * *

On the fifth day of his exile on the island, he watched a young boy built up something out of sticks and grass. He might have been eight or nine years old, but he showed surprising dexterity, as he put together the sticks to a form of a tetrahedron, four triangular faces forming a body. He twisted and turned the object, frowning, a look of intense concentration lingering on his face.

He took some palm leaves, tore them into pieces to fill up the faces of the shape, when Norrington, thoughtfully watching him, felt reminded, if dimly of something he could not exactly place.

The boy sensed his gaze and lifted his head, looked at him with a smirk, throwing the object in the air, catching it again, before he crawled to his feet and skipped towards him carelessly.

Norrington was to surprised for any evasive action and remained rooted on the floor, wondering at the boldness of the boy, and being – if only faintly – remembered of a very defiant young girl aboard the Dauntless...

actually I found it quite fascinating..

but the mere thought squeezed his chest with inhuman force and he bit on the inside of his cheeks, the pain forcing him back to reality. The boy was standing before him, lifting the object in his hand to present it to him. Reluctantly he took it, his mind again focused on the question, why this object looked so ... strangely familiar.

„Charm", the boy said, by way of explanation, his accent thick enough, that he almost did not recognize the word. Norrington frowned.

„This is a charm, you mean?"

The boy cocked his head, surveyed him with large eyes, but did not answer. Norrington was at loss to tell, whether this was due to his inability to express himself, or whether he simply did not want to tell him.

„I do not need it", he changed his opinion and threw it at the boy, not unkindly, but not without annoyance, either, his mind fully intent on turning back towards his bonderings. Indeed, the boy caught the item and hurried off, but before Norrington could flee to his own thoughts again, he heard the dry voice of Kuluk-Hye, the medicine man of the tribe. He was a relatively small man of unfanthomable age. His face was wrinkled, though the shape and course of the wrinkles did not necessarily tell of many years behind him, but might as well have been part of his natural physiognomy. There were pearls and mussels in his hair, klinking with every movement he made, thereby reminding Norrington painfully of Captain Jack Sparrow. His voice was a deep, sonorous rumble, but his manner of speaking english was barely understandable.

„Never wise play charm", he said, scoldingly. „Charm no toy."

„I am not superstitious", he answered, against all experience of his. „Especially not about children's toys."

„You blind, Navyman", Kuluk-Hye judged, with finality. „Such thing never toy. And not if children make."

Norrington snorted. He felt, in some way, indebted to the medicine man, but this debt went not long enough for him to listen to any of the ramblings the medicine man had to say. He had heard enough of this nonsense to last him a lifetime.

„This is nonsense", he could not help saying.

Kuluk-Hye sighed, deeply.

„Three holy", he explained. „Three you need build home. Three what you need close. Not go with two. At least three. But house need foundation. So. Three and a base. Symbol perfect. No side like other. But only strong together."

Norrington squinted his eyes. True, the cottages of the tribe were of triangular shape, mostly built around a tree, but he did not understand, what the medicine man was referring to.

„What are you trying to tell me?" His patience was wearing thin, but Kuluk-Hye just sighed a second time.

„But make good toy in child hand. Strong. Child need. Child learn"

He shrugged and went towards the boy, that had scrambled off in confusion, placing a careful head on the young's shoulder to lead him off into the silent, green wall of the jungle. Norrington's gaze followed them before turning back to the sea.

The feeling, that he was definitely missing something, became stronger by the minute.

* * *

Two days later, a merchant's ship came. Their captain was deeply distressed at the sight of the Commodore of Port Royal and the state that he was in, but Norrington was in no mood to explain any of the occurencies that had brought him to this place. He offered no story, and the crew was not bold enough to ask. Silently, throught their voyage to Port Royal, he brought himself back to shape again, washed himself, shaved, was even offered a set of fresh clothes from the personal store of the Captain.

But as much as he scrubbed, the stains that were the worst, did not come off, no matter how much soap he used.

* * *

Kuluk-Hye watched the ship depart with no small regret in his eyes, He stood at the beach, arms folded, without so much as the twitch of a muscle and there was much sorrow in his heart at watching James Norrington leave.

„So proud he is", he sighed, in his mother tongue, knowing that the words would not go unnoticed. „And the truth he does not see, and if it were lain before his feet."

There was a rustle in the trees, like a gentle laughter.

„He will. Oh, but he will..."


	34. Unscathed

A/N: Yes, I know. I keep excusing myself for 'keeping you a while', but... well.. what can I say? The good news is, that this time, my translation is ahead of what I published here, so there are chapters 33 to 36 already written, and the only thing that keeps me from posting all of them at once is my very personal cruelty :-D

What I'm trying to say is: The next updates will definitely come more quickly..

darklight: I know the problem of very few time to write, I really do. I can't really say, how or why I find the time. Writing is not just fun, but a necessity. Truly, if I don't write for some time, I get really, really queasy (my boyfriend could tell you some tales indeed :-D ). So, maybe I'm the wrong person for advice... except maybe for 'tackle it one step at a time'. I have been at this here, what I called a 'plot bunny' in the beginning, for over half a year, and there is still much to go...

Patience, and so on.

Blah blah blah  
I sound as if I were a million years old.

But now, without further ado - back to the story :-D

* * *

**Chapter 33**

**Unscathed**

Unlike many of the other times, when her strange talent had taken over control over the more concious parts of her mind, this time, Susannah remembered clearly what had happened. Like the eyesight after a blinding flash of light, her senses were clouded, overwrought by the storm, and even though she could dimly sense that it was long past, its aftermath was still shaking her breathless.

She remembered everything. The catastrophe drawing nearer, the feeling of being torn between the elements, with every fiber of her very being, when she cowered aboard the Black Pearl, clinging on to the rail for dear life. She remembered having spoken about it to Anamaria, having cried for help, to be honest, but the pirate had misunderstood, and she had fallen in the pit she had long sensed before her feet.

When the storm was upon them, amidst the rolling, she had known, what to do. She had felt the pull for quite some time, but for all her pondering, for all her listening, she had not known, what to make of it.

When she finally reacted, she watched herself with a kind of detached wonder, as she stood up, turning around towards what the storm brought with it.

Chaos reigned upon them by then, and the words came to her naturally.

Amidst the torment, she was the shield.

Tears stood in her eyes, as she looked into the deep, saw the Dauntless falling, somewhere, in the boiling waters, small spots that were the sailors. She wanted to cry out for them, feld acutely, that she had tried to warn them, tried to warn the Commodore, felt a sparkle of an old, old fear, but there was not much that was Susannah in this moment.

There was more to it.

She raised her head to the upcoming storm and what it brought with it, a proud highly towering ship with dark sails, menacing against the grey-green clouds of the sky. She could see shadows moving about it and felt the dread that she, up to now, had only experienced in echoes. This, indeed, was an enemy, at her face. It was her enemy, ancient and yet, only a torn image what she was really feeling, like reflections on a stained glass.

But while she knew, that facing reality was beyound her powers, beyound her capabilities, the mirror image was not quite beyound her grasp.

She lifted her fingers in a triangle, holding it out towards the advancing menace, shouting against the wind what she felt with every fiber of her being.

„I am the shield!"

Something in her call was heard, brought forward a reaction on the winds, surprise, anger, a trembling vibration, that spoke of a battle of forces.

„Born of the four I am the shield."

She could reach for something elusive, buried within her, deeply, oh so deeply, brought forth by the apparent danger and a specter she had never up to now encountered. She stopped shouting, knowing that she would be heard, even if it were only a whisper that she sent out to the wind.

„Go back where you came from", she continued, commanding. „Not this time, not this place..."

They were hesitating. Confusion was radiating from the air like dripping rain, falling upon her head, upon her shoulders, filling her face, her thoughts, and she knew, she was gaining ground.

It was then, that her fury had once more fallen upon them.

She sensed the closeness much as she sensed everything that the storm was able to tell, like a great wave coming, and she knew that there was an enemy, that, even in spirit, she could not fight.

Panic seized her, not for the first time, and she cried for the crew of the Black Pearl to run, to run as fast as they could, and as they took up sped, darkness was closing in on her, and she was finally allowed to rest.

Whatever it had been, that had happened to her, it had exhausted her to the bone. In the aftermath, when she slowly, painfully regained conciousness, she found that her senses were not to be trusted. She felt raw, hurt, bleeding, like skin being scratched over a rocky surface, and she could not even imagine what kind of salve it could be that could be a balm for the wounds she had suffered. She tried to reach for the elusive thing, that she had felt in the storm, but it was gone again, or dormant at least, and not responding, not to call, not to plea. Confusion settled in, and Susannah, when slowly realizing all that had happened, entered another stage of acceptance of her own, strange abilities.

After Hollerby's revelation, she had felt a mild confusion, curiosity, and a slight satisfaction at finding an explanation for the strange occurrencies of late. But then, she had only been touched kindly by her gift.

Now, in the aftermath of the storm, she felt violated.

And just a moment later, she realized, that she was afraid of herself.

„I think, she is waking up."

Anamaria wrung out a dirty cloth to moist it again with some water that they had pulled up from the sea. „Any time now, she'll open her eyes."

„Ah." It was not really a response and appeared to be more like a random sound, but Anamaria had not actually expected an answer of Jack. She looked up at him for the briefest of moments and was, not for the first time, surprised to see something like worry etched into his features.

But then, it was quite probable that Lucilla had saved them all. And she had payed quite a price for it.

The Tortuga seeress was lying in the captain's cot, and the smears of blood had yet to be cleaned completely from her face, from her ears. It was only, when she had screamed for them to run – as if they had been doing anything else at that particular moment – that Anamaria had realized what Lucilla had been doing all along. By the time she had gotten to her, Lucilla was trembling violently, and virtually weeping blood. Blood was streaming out of her nose, out of her ears, and she did not recognise Anamaria, spurting out random words, „shield", „run", „wind", and only seconds later, she collapsed in the arms of the pirate woman, unconcious.

„I think, she saved our butts", Anamaria concluded her internal debate. „Whatever she was doing there."

„Mmmh." Still Jack did not seemed inclined to anything that could rightfully be called a conversation.

„You got any ideas what the hell these ships were?"

„The Dauntless was one."

„Smart guy. Should have known. And the rest?"

„No idea."

Anamaria shot him a glance, and she could tell, that he was lying. However, she doubted that he would at the moment tell her the truth. And considering, at what bay they were currently anchored, she had reasonable hopes that she would get some answers soon enough.

„Do you think any of them got out?" Anamaria asked, making another attempt at talk.

„I saw the Dauntless sink, and that other ship, that was pursued by... the storm."

„So two for their side."  
„Yeah", Jack agreed. „So to speak."

„That was only a merchant's ship they were pursuing. That's lunacy, ain't it?"

„Well, were they pirates...", he shook his head. „But they're not. I don't know what they were after. Luckily not us."

„And Lucilla chased them off."  
„Good girl she is." A first glint of a gold-flashing smile. Anamaria concluded that her captain must be recovering. „Good I found her, right?"

Anamaria sighed, but did not pick up his thought.

„You think the Commodore is dead?"

„Ah..." Jack made a face, „would be a real pity. Decent guy that man is... was.. whatever. Anyway, as decent as a navyman gets... well, maybe not. Anyway. No idea really. Would be a shame. I had been looking forward to playing another game with dear Norrington..."

"The charm…."

The voice was so tiny, so small, that Jack would maybe have missed it, had not Anamaria been squattering so close to Susannah, that missing was hardly possible. She turned towards the black-haired seeress, whose eyelids twitched, telltale signs of the woman awakening, even though she did not yet show any sign of recognizing any of them.

"What charm, honey?" she asked, leaning closer to the frail form, even though she was pretty sure of what Lucilla was talking about. Back on the sea she had done… something, that had kept the ghosts at bay. If anything, it made her more creepy.

"He is gone, isn't he?" Infinite sadness spoke from her words, as her eyes were still closed, a sadness tearing at her despite herself.

"Who are you talking about?" Anamaria intercepted, and finally, finally Lucilla opened her eyes, black, deep, sightless pools looking at the pirate woman and yet, not taking any notice of her. For an instance, it seemed, as if there were tears there, and a desperation reaching deep, but then, in the twinkle of an eye, it was gone. Lucilla did not respond, but she did seem to come back, like a diver reaching the surface of the sea after a long way from the bottom, clarity chasing away any honesty that might have been there.

"I don't know, Anamaria." Her words were more composed and less dreamy, and she knew, that it was at last Lucilla she was talking to, and not the strange woman, who seemed to tread in dark places she did not even want to enter. "There is such a pit beneath me… it swallows everything. I am afraid of falling"

"We keep you here", she promised, and Lucilla nodded, tiredly, yet more clear than ever since the storm began. "Listen, sweet, we…"

"We really need to know what you did out there"; Jack Sparrow intercepted, smiling winningly, yet, for a moment, Anamaria saw contempt wandering over Lucilla's face, and a feeling of insecurity which, she was sure, Jack Sparrow would not have missed either. He was an expert on recognizing these things.

She felt a surge of protectiveness, but Lucilla closed her eyes and excluded both of them from their thoughts.

"I do not know"; she said, honestly, and less sincerely adding, "and if I did, I am not sure I would be able to tell you."

Jack hissed, dissatisfied, but Anamaria was not inclined to leaving Lucilla to be his prey just yet.

"At least, wait until we get to her, for heaven's sake. She will answer your questions, if you really are so keen on it."

Jack snorted, but whether it was, to escape their questions, or whether it was because of pure exhaustion, Susannah did not open her eyes until much afterwards, and then, it was to a completely different setting.

They had abandoned the Pearl and boarded two small boats, in which they rowed upstream. They followed a murky river, mud, plants and other things smearing the water, so that everything, that was left, was a brown sort of soup, that smelled, if not bad, then peculiar, and that wound through the jungle like a snake, cutting what had belonged together, in two.

Susannah felt, that they were nearing something. Wound, wounded, oversensitive as she was, she still found it difficult to focus on what her more conservative senses taught her, and as a result of this, every feeling was multiplied, enhanced, demanding her attention with the utmost insistence.

The bench beneath her, raw and uneven, was hurting, just a little, not more than anything she was used to, but still, at a time, when even the rough cloth of her skirt seemed like a razor knife carefully grazing her skin, it was uncomfortable at the least. The boat was swaying softly, a lulling movement, that mingled with a calling she felt deep within, a stirring of senses, that still felt abused by the past, and that was distracting her from what she really saw or felt. The trees were large enough to shade a majority of the stream, so that the light was dim, of a diffuse greenish gray, that presented their surroundings with a surreal quality that might have directly come from a dream. There were plants on either side, towering trees, cowering bushes, flowers, whose scent was sweet and intense enough to carry towards them, mixing with the odors of the river, that told of rotting wood, mud and dirt, a scent not unknown to those growing up on the shore.

They floated in silence, none of them uttering a word, not the invincible Captain Jack Sparrow, who was sitting in the first of the two boats, standing at the bow in a proud posture that was supposed to radiate confidence, but that, to Susannah's heightened senses, only betrayed fear. But she told no one, not even Anamaria, who had been a trustworthy companion up to now, and who sat next to her in a thoughtful posture, occasionaly throwing her a glance but otherwise making it a point of not looking at her.

Gibbs was sitting a row in front of her, clutching his rifle and looking around as if he expected an ambush, but Susannah, amidst all this apparent uneasiness, that transferred to her easily, still felt a remarkable sense of quietness. She knew, as much as she knew her own name, that this surrounding would not hurt her, would not hurt any of them. In fact, there was a remarkable notion of coming home.

They traveled well into the evening, until the darkness fell around them like a blanket, and the small laterns on the bows of their boats were the only true sources of light in a pool of darkness. Susannah, eyes closed, floated on a wave of warmth and only opened her eyes, when on the first boat, people finally began to stir. In the darkness, some meters ahead, there was another apparent source of fire, above the stream, flickering, but steady, pools of light, that, as they drew nearer, soon became lit windows, that seemed to belong to a house, that here, at the end of the world, seemed at once utterly familiar and utterly strange.

The house was built on the shore of the stream, standing on poles, so that even when the river was carrying much water, it was untouched by it. A veranda surrounded the small cottage, that was constructed entirely of wood, wood, that seemed to have suffered well from the moisture all around, but that, at least to them, seemed to be holding for the moment.

"There she lives", Anamaria offered, as if Susannah had not known already, but she made an effort to smile, to conciously thank for this small kindness the pirate was trying to offer to her.

In silence, they approached.

„Let me go first." Jack was all confidence, all captain, as he stood in his boat like a commander on deck, his hands spread out in a gesture of friendly beseeching. „I will talk to her. You just stay here, savvy?"

He stepped onto the first bar of the ladder, his hand softly caressing a handhold.

„Just be calm, eh? I'll be back in no time."

He galvanized into action, climbing up onto the platform without any further ado.

„You wish", Anamaria growled and got to her feet.

„Take care of the boat", she advised Maroo, who was sitting in front of her, rows still in his hands. „And of her", she added, nodding to Susannah, who was still crouching in the back of the small nutshell, watching her with curious eyes. Anamaria whirled around and mounted the stairs.

The young seamstress watched her go, in her so very typical, frowning manner, before finally coming to a conclusion and following her. She only shortly wheeled around to look at Maroo, adding a weak

„Take care of the boat", to Anamaria's good advices before vanishing beyound the rim of the platform as well.

Anamaria was bent towards the door of the cottage, trying to listen to the words that were spoken inside. When Susannah crept up to her, she shot her a disapproving look, but made space nonetheless for her to join in on her attempt at eavesdropping.

The voices coming out of the house were low, Jack's, then the answer of a woman, whose voice was deep, rich, vibrating, thus reaching deeply into Susannah's chest. Her accent was strong and strange, and Susannah was at loss to place it.

„You are coming to tell me what I know already, Jack Sparrow", she said, not unfriendly, but firmly. „So what of it?"

„I... am a bit uneasy, my dear. After all... well, I am not entirely sure what this means."

A rich laugh was the first answer.

„For you, that is, right, Jack?"

The silence was eloquent, and Anamaria and Susannah exchanged a look.

„Well, Jack", the woman continued, sounding a trifle amused, playful even. „You know, that there always is a price."

„And I have just the thing"; Jack cut in, apparently having prepared this part of the conversation for quite a long time. To Susannah's ears, he sounded like a merchant on the market, trying to find a buyer for a most precious item. His voice dropped lower, sounded as if it were farther away, and to Susannah's mind, immediately an image sprang of the pirate leaning towards the unknown woman, confiding in her, whispering alluringly.

„I have found something for you, savvy? A treasure, a raw diamant to be carved by your cunning hands. I came by it – just by chance, and by keeping my eyes wide open, as these things happen. I have found you..."

He interrupted, and suddenly was more easy to understand, speaking louder and clearer.

„Ah, no, it is best to show you. Just wait here for an instance, I will be right back."

„Not necessary, Jack." She sounded fond. „Just opening the door will do."

Anamaria and Susannah recoiled, but the seamstress saw in the pirate's eyes, that she was not as surprised as she should have been. Apparently, one had to cound on a lot of things when dealing with the person beyound that door.

And when Jack did as he was bid, Susannah was bathed in warm light, that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Her first glimpse of the inside of the cottage was one of pure and utter chaos. Only, as she continued to stare, blinking, into the light, she began to discern single items, candles, standing between a cacophony of things, half of which she could not even begin to guess what they represented. Dried cadavers of Animals hung from the ceiling, shelfs were filled with shells and jars, and amidst all this chaos stood Jack Sparrow, looking out of place in his dark attire, and a woman, who was intrinsic to these surroundings, belonging to it like the light or the warmth.

She was clad in what had once been a dress of gold brocade, but age and lack of care had worn down the careful embroidery, yet it was clean, worn, but clean, reflecting the golden light and becoming part of it.

She was dark, native to these islands, black eyes watched her between black rastas that hung to both sides of her face. She was smiling, smiling widely, and Susannah, looking at her in astonishment, was trembling.

For a moment in time, she knew, that she knew her, felt the familiar surge of seeing something remembered from childhood, a feeling of being unable to place the familiarity, and yet breathing it in with every instant. Time receded, as she gazed into the eyes, endlessly deep, endlessly mysterious, and recognized a being of old, something, that, if showing itself to her truly, would leave her defenseless, trembling on the floor.

„Come in, child", the woman said, and like a puppet on strings, Susannah obeyed, not even being concient enough to feel Sparrow step behind her and place protective hands on her shoulders, pushing her forward with careful determination.

„This young woman I met in Tortuga not long ago", he whispered, as if confessing a secret or trying to gain the interest of the woman before him. „I knew from what I heard that she was someone that would interest you. She is a seeress, savvy? A true seeress, as true as they come."

„Is she...?" the woman answered without relieving Susannah from her gaze. The young seamstress felt remembered, by the way of loosing herself in another's power, to the inexplicable Crystabella Halvery, but this power was of a completely different sort. Only dimly sh realized, that the warmth she felt after coming out of the night chill was not only due to the house itself.

The stranger walked up to Susannah, placing a careful, but very dirty hand under her chin. Her teeth, as she smiled, were blackened, but her smile was welcoming nonetheless.

„What is your name, child?"

„Susannah", she answered, without being able to help herself, feeling an astonished intake of breath from Sparrow, who stood behind her. „Susannah De..."

The stranger raised a hand and silenced her immediately, once more the puppet on her string. The smile had vanished from her eyes and face as if it had never been there, wiped away to be replaced by a notion of seriousness, that changed her expression completely. The room darkened.

„That is enough", she cut in, then relieved Susannah of her gaze and she sagged, while the strange woman turned towards Jack Sparrow again.

„How worthy of you, Jack", she said, and her expression was inscrutable. „To bring me something that should have found the way to me soon enough..."

She closed in on him, watching him intently.

„Glad I could help", Jack tried to gain some room to breathe, but she would not show him mercy.

„And how like you to present me something that is so intrinsic to your problem as a... price." The last word she hissed, a sound so close to a snake, that Susannah flinched.

„No, Jack. Not this way. I will help you, yes, but the price will be something different. Something very different, Jack."

„Ah, whatever you want, Tia."

He tried to sound casual, generous, but Susannah noticed the tiny undertone of fear. Righteously so, she thought, because even though she was sure, that there was no threat radiating out of the strange woman, she was, at least, potentially, very dangerous.

„Susannah?"

She turned around to the witch, because nothing else this woman could be.

„Yes?"

„I am sorry. I was rude." She strode towards her again, brocade rustling, a smile on her face, but her eyes were intent, as intent, as Susannah's own were, at times, unbeknownst to herself. They were alike, in a way.

The woman extended her hands to Susannah, palms open, welcoming, and she smiled softly, friendly.

„My name is Tia Dalma", she introduced herself, baring more than just a name to the young woman. „And if you dare, I can... no, I will teach you."

Susannah frowned.

„Why?" she whispered, the first question on her mind, and Tia Dalma drew closer, face serious again.

„Because I can. Because the sea runs in both our veins. Because in the wind there is a whisper, that neither of us can withstand for long. Because a darkness has stretched out its wings, born of the scorn of old, and yet a very new wickedness, and it will swallow everything in its own time, and you not the last, child."

Susannah blinked.

„You know her", she whispered. And Tia, in a gesture, that was oddly familiar, placed her forehead against hers, hands getting lost in Susannahs dark locks.

„Of course..." Her words echoed around the room like a ghost with a mind of it's own. „And this is why."

„I don't understand."

Tia Dalma smiled, blackened teeth showing, but her breath, wandering over Susannah's face, carried no stench.

„All in due time, Susannah. You cannot climb a mountain in one jump. And neither can I."


	35. Shying from specters

**Chapter 34**

**Shying from specters**

Silence enfolded the house like a blanket. The curtains were closed, and servants walked literally on tiptoes, as if trying not to wake anything that might be slumbering inside. The whole household seemed to be in a state close to sleep, and yet filled with uneasiness, as if everything, everybody was waiting breathlessly for news of something, that their very lives might depend on.

The household felt tired, exhausted, without being able to place the feeling, like the hangover of a party gone too long or the aftermath of a disease that only by a hair's width spared the victim of eternal silence.

More than once, these days, the majordomus caught one or the other servant napping in a corner, but he could not find it in himself to scold him thoroughly, when even a malevolent glare seemed to be as exhausting as a long run uphill.

Even thoughts seemed to be too demanding by far.

For two days, Crystabella Halvery had not left her room.

And for the same two days, the Governeur had spent every moment by her side.

* * *

In the dim light of the seaside room, when curtains had been drawn and only the light of a small chandelier chased away the dark, specters of the past came unbidden.

Witherby Swann sat by the bed of a only softly breathing Crystabella Halvery, whose face was hidden in shadows. She was dressed only in a white nightgown, but he did not mind, and sadly his eyes traced the trail of black curls, that found their way down her breast, black on the creamy white on the sheets, and yet it remembered him of another time, a younger Witherby, and another bed, a woman, blonde curls this time, and a soft, wheezing breath, that was weaker by the minute.

„Don't go", he whispered painfully, fearing, that this time, so very much like the last time, it would be in vain. He had spent hours, days at her bedside, but in the end, she had slipped through his fingers like running water, bidding him goodbye with a final, weak smile of her glorious lips.

There were days, when he was frightened at the resemblance that Elizabeth bore to his late wife, but thoughts on Elizabeth were hazy these days, as if a curtain had been drawn between the two of them, that seperated him from her, but that also mindered the pain of separation, so that, at times, he found himself even unable to remember, who she was, or why she was not there.

A soft curling of long, slender fingers showed that his words had not gone unnoticed. He bowed, cradling Crystabella's small palm in his own. Her skin was cold, damp, with a feeling of lifelessness, that spread over to him without any hesitation.

„I'm here", he assured, lovingly, while he tried to discern her features, tried to see something amidst the shadows, some change in the lifeless mask that was her face, that would talk of better days to come, but Crystabella did not move, and in lying there, she suddenly seemed very old and very fragile.

The doctor was unable to tell what was wrong with her. Swann had called upon him the first thing, when he had found the spanish woman on the balcony of her room, curled into herself and lifeless, but all he was able to say was, that a weakness had come over her. A weakness in body, and maybe also in mind, because the doctor had remarked, that sometimes, even when the body wants to live, a spirit, that gives in, might be, indeed, fatal.

Since then, he had sat at her bedside, willing her to live, but no word had been uttered, and she had slept, a ghost of her former self. She was there, but she was weak.

He was unable to tell, what kind of catastrophe had hit her, but the whole household had felt it, had been shaken by its impact, as if an earthquake had rattled their ground and left them destroyed. He had known immediately, that something had happened.

He had run through the house in search for Crystabella, for with the certainty, that only reality can show, he had know, that something had happened to her, that this tingling, that shook all of them to their core, originated from her, even if she was not the cause for it.

When he had found her on the balcony, first thinking her dead, the sense of loss had been intense, breathtaking, as if Victoria had been taken from him all over again, but then he had seen her breathing, and vowed a silent oath not to lose her as he had lost his wife such an eternity ago.

She seemed not to be waning, at least. She did not become weaker, as he had feared, there were none of the silent trembles, that betrayed weakness, none of the telltale signs, that he had seen in Victoria, and this gave him hope. If he was lucky, Crystabella would live.

Many times during these endlessly long two days, he had asked himself what had happened, what had brought her into the state she was now, but he was unable to see. It had been quite a normal day, the fact aside, that there was a storm brewing out on the sea, but this in itself was no unusual occurence, and he had not worried overly about it, since it seemed to recede from Jamaika instead of drawing closer.

„Stay..."

The first words in two days, and he nearly had missed them in his musings. But it had been Crystabella speaking, and now, that he bowed towards her, he could see, that her eyes were opened to a small slit, and that her fingers had curled around his, weakly, but in a conscient movement.

„Crystabella", he answered, his voice thick with relief. Memories of the past shied away as he realized, that this was not, as it had been so long ago, a final summoning of strength to bid him goodbye, but, in fact, a first sign of recovery, and the relief was overwhelming.

She, smiled, softly, and the Gouverneur felt an answering smile lighting up his features, as if the specters of the past were shying away to leave something, that vaguely felt like happiness.

* * *

Of all the visitors Lieutenant Gilette had had during the last weeks, the one that stepped by his place that morning was probably the strangest. He had become used to the Commodore's absence, and to the necessities, of taking care of his dealings while he was not there. Concerns of the population and the occasional summoning of the Gouverneur he handled with equal care, tried to be a competent superior officer to his minions and was, as he prided himself to say, slowly growing into the role.

Not, that, if he was honest to himself, Port Royal was quite like it used to be. The city seemed subdued since the last pirate attack, the origin of which he had, as of now, failed to learn. The people were afraid, no matter how much care he put into the watching shifts, how much he tried to assure them that he would not be caught unawares again, but he did not begrudge them their fear. Part of him, buried down deep as he had learned to, was very much agreeing with that fear.

Beyound that, he did not very much like to visit the residence of the Gouvernor any more. In the first days of Norrington's absense, he had felt proud, later then, after the attack, he had dreaded Swann's fury, that was, righteuosly, directed towards him. And now, some time afterwards, he had ceased to understand what was going on in the residence.

Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner were missing for the better part of two weeks, and he was unable to find them, yet, Swann's despair at that fact – and the constant row of bad news that he had the infortunate duty of delivering to the Governor – was not so prominent as he would have expected from everything he knew. He had been devastated, when his daughter had been taken by the Black Pearl. Now, his attitude was more one of annoyance, and not even of a heartly felt one. It seemed, as if his concern had just been extinguished, like a flame by a rush of water, and there was nothing left.

But that was only one of the oddities, that Gillette had noticed. There was something profoundly strange in that household. The silence, that was not one of dignity, one of pride, but one of subdued uneasiness. It was graspable with bare hands, and Gillette avoided coming there as much as he could.

But this morning, the oddities reached their peak.

At first, he was at loss to tell who it was, that he was seeing. The young woman was beautiful, a mass of black hair wrought in a bun and hidden beneath a hat in creamy yellow, that was matching her dress, an expensive, beautiful garment that undeniably placed her among Port Royal's nobles. Her face was a bit too tanned to be considered beautiful in the eyes of a british officer, it was, however, undeniable, that her face carried a certain beauty.

Nevertheless, he had never seen her before.

She wandered among the battlements as if she were on a simple afternoon stroll – which could have been the case, had this not been the heart of Port Royal military presence, and had this place not been strictly off limits to all civilians.

Besides, for an afternoon stroll, her movements were a bit too hesitating, and her gaze never left the horizon, where, storm clouds long gone, a brilliant sun was slowly nearing the waterfront to drown in its endless depths. She seemed distracted, and, in a flash of intuition, he understood, who she was.

He had not heard much, and not seen anything of Leonora Halvery, Crystabella Halvery's near invisible daughter, who had been at the residence since their arrival, but never yet been seen in town. The resemblance was, indeed, striking, yet Leonora lacked the grandeur of her mother's attitude, and something about her, not unlike so many things these days, striked him as being extremely odd.

„Excuse me, Miss?"

He stepped in, in an attempt to attract her attention. Whoever she was, and however odd she was behaving, she had nothing to do up here, and he was about to inform her of this.

At first, he was sure, that she had not heard him. She had the air of a sleepwalker, and so she only turned towards him, with a certain delay, opening her mouth as if to speak, but then thinking better of it.

„Without meaning offense, Miss, but what are you doing up here?"

She frowned softly, licking full lips as if she were nervous, of fidgeting with words.

„I was looking..."

He raised an eyebrow at her expression of the trivial, but she blinked, once, twice, as if considering how to continue. „... out... for..."

She broke off, and turned her gaze again to the open sea. Gillette was confused, stepped a step closer, but she did not grant him her attention.

„For what?" he inquired, but she only shrugged, as if she had forgotten, or forgotten to care. She was completely untouched by any concern considering her obscure surrounding or her highly improper behavior.

„Miss... Halvery", Gillette began again, but even the mentioning of what was her name did not bring him to her attention. „Unfortunately I must inform you that the battlements are off limits for civilians. Without meaning any offense I would prefer, that your visit here was a short one."

„I wanted to talk to you", she said, out of the blue, absently chewing on her thumb, a gesture so incredibly improper to her so totally proper attire, that he felt reminded of a child doing something it knew it was not supposed to.

„Well...", he replied, at loss for an appropriate answer. „Since I am here, I would advise, that you did what you came for."

„There was a storm... you know?" she whispered, looking out to where, indeed, two days ago the storm had raged.

„Yes..." Gillette was beginning to loose his temper. „There was indeed."

„I am so tired", she sighed, and sounded lost, sad, desperate maybe even. „I am so tired."

„Shall I bring you back to the residence?" Gillette offered, stepping closer yet, but her „No!" was firm and again left him to wonder, what exactly was going on uphill these days. She shook her head. „The storm is dreadful", she answered, by way of explanation, but it was no explanation at all.

„Yes, but it is gone." He tried to sound soothing, but he was ill at ease in such a kind of a situation.

„Gone...", she echoed and shook her head. „I can hear it in the hills."

„Listen, Miss Halvery"; he answered, as carefully as his temper would allow him. „You really have to get down from there. Allow me to escort you back down, will you?"

He extended a hand towards her, and, after a moment's thoughtful consideration, she agreed, placing her hand in his in the often praticed gesture, typical hint of social interaction between man and woman in the sterile atmosphere of british society.

She allowed him to lead her away from the shoreline and towards the stairs, watching him with a frown, when, all of a sudden, she shied away from him.

„No", she whispered, shaking her head wildly. Strands of black hair came loose, hanging wildly about her face. „I must leave."

She squeezed his hand, whirling around and vanishing down the stairs with surprising agility, that by no means seemed to belong to the same person, that had been dazed enough to hardly react towards his advances earlier on.

He watched her leaving, and it took him some time to understand, that in his hand, that had held hers only moments ago, there was a tiny piece of paper, in high danger of being blown away by the wind.

He closed his fingers around it and stepped into the shadows. The strange behavior of Leonora Halvery still on his mind, he unfolded the parchment, a small piece only, as if having been ripped from a larger page.

The ink was black, dry but smeared, the writing in a hand, that might have been elegant, had it not been for the smears, and for the apparent haste, that turned the accurate writing into a large blob.

Yet, the words were very easily distinguishable.

Two words only.

HELP ME

She was gone, when he finally reached the top of the stairs. Uneasily, he turned his head towards the residence, that lay silently uphill, nothing on the cool, majestic exterior betrayed what was going on behind the windows.

Gillette was not sure, whether he would have quite the courage to find out.


	36. A spanish rose

Lamminator: I left you alone for so long, so now I figure it's time for a hurry :-D. I am planning, further on, to update more or less once a week, but you never know... there's always that 'day job' to consider :-D. As for the commas, oups, I am trying... cough Thanks for the notice anyway.

darklight: Concerning Leonora... well, I do not want to give it away if you haven't guessed yet what is wrong... (I thought I had been quite clear already). If you are looking for clues, I recommend rereading Chapter 28: Variations on a theme of trust and Chapter 26 'By any means necessary', there are quite some clues there... or you just wait for chapter 37, which will (probably) be called 'the shadow of four', and which has already been written, but cruel me, I am keeping it from you yet :-D

Concerning Crystabella, you are quite right in disliking her. Actually, everybody should. And there's more about her here...

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 35**

**A spanish rose**

„Well, well, well…"

Elizabeth raised her brows at the thoughtful pondering of the man before her. She was sitting next to Will, in a chair that could be called comfortable, while the situation most definitely was not.

_In the hands of the enemy…_

That had the ring of romance to it, if she considered the novels she had so often read during her childhood and adolescence, it reminded her of adventurous times she had dreamed of, but found things not quite what they had imagined them to be.

It would be wrong to say, that she was outright scared. It took a lot to scare Elizabeth Swann out of her wits, and she was not gone as far as that right now – at least not, when Fernando Castellano was the man of her current attention. He was still young, in his early thirties maybe, and in posture and behaviour somewhat reminded her of Commodore Norrington. A spanish Commodore Norrington of course, which made him quite different, stiffness gone, yet sense of duty still in place, a man with manners much more casual than she was used to, but Elizabeth was careful enough to see ambition and the face of a very dangerous man below the thin layer of charming smiles.

His eyes did not betray what he was thinking, while he watched the two of them with a predating look.

„Meaning…?" Elizabeth finally broke into his ponderings, unable to bear the silence any longer. Castellano smiled, but it was a smile bereft of joy, charming, yet not reaching his eyes, and thus, even though very different, in another way extremely similar to James Norrington's thin-lipped smirk.

„I am wondering… frankly." His english was very good – better than either Elizabeth's or William's spanish anyway - although the accent was thick, his choice of words was mostly fitting. He clasped his hands behind his back, strolling at leisure in front of the two of them, finally halting in front of Will.

„Burn scars on the hands", he mused, his eyes squinted. „How extraordinary for a lady of your apparent good heritage to find herself in the company of a… blacksmith?"

„What do you want?" Will asked, calm, but unmistakeably with steel underneath. He stayed put, but his gaze made it quite clear, that he felt up to a fight against the captain of the spanish ship. Castellano was apparently feeling very sure of himself. He was here in his cabin with them without the presence of any guards. The two english captives were not sure, whether this was calming or not.

„I want to know, what you were doing out there", Castellano answered, quite frankly. „I want to know, who you are."

„What are you going to do with us?"Elizabeth asked, working very hard not to show any of her uneasiness to the captain. Castellano stopped in his stride to look at her.

„Well, my very spirited young lady, that depends very much. On who you are, on what you are going to tell me… and on other things as well."  
„I'm Elizabeth Swann, all right?" She made a face, sounding profoundly annoyed. „If that's what you wanted to know."

He smiled, and if she expected surprise at her revelation, she was deeply disappointed. „I thought as much", he replied, „but much more charming it was to hear it from your own lips."

„How did you know?" Will intercepted with a question Elizabeth would not have posed for the obviousness of its answer, yet Castellano seemed to be pleased, with himself maybe, or with his own cleverness.

„There have been peculiar rumors around, Miss Swann, about a ship with black sails, widely feared in these waters, and indeed, about a very interesting betrothal." He smiled again, seeming very off-handed. „Well, none of this matters to me, of course."

„And what will you do, now that you know?"

„You are interesting news, Miss Swann. Another… hint among a few, that the british Governor of Port Royal might not be… on top of things at the moment."

„What do you mean?" She eyed him distrustingly.

„Please, Miss Swann. You carry a certain reputation with you. And stupidity is not among the features that they usually connect with your person."

„You are extremely well informed", Elizabeth bit back. „I would, of course, expect no else from somebody even hiring our own people for the sake of information."

„Ah, spirited, as I said." Castellano smiled softly. „Yet Jeffrey Blackbird's decisions are his own, and he is accountable to neither me nor you for them. And would any of you really not jump at the chance?"

„I thought we were at peace, captain", Elizabeth reminded, softly on the outside, yet british governeur's daughter and all dignity.

„Of course" , Castellano replied, smoothly. „Did I say anything else? I am quite sure I did not." He smiled, showing white teeth. „You are my guests, of course. Not my prisoners."

„As long as it suits you", Will intercepted distrustingly. He felt off foot in the game of subtle accusations that the two that felt more confident in politics were apparently playing. Yet, it did not take a noble upbringing to understand enough bits and pieces to feel threatened.

„I a a captain", Castellano replied patiently. „On my ship, as you know well, this means, that I decide… what happens." The pause was prominent.

„And this will depend on what?"

„The second part of my question still stands, Miss Swann. How did it come to pass, that the daugher of Port Royal's governor was found adrift on a piece of wood, in the open sea, miles from any land, accompanied only by a… blacksmith?"

Elizabeth looked over to Will, whose face told plainly, that this was one of the times, where he was just about to do something – as Jack would put it – incredibly stupid. She briefly thought of stopping him, but knew, that even she would not have the means to do so.

So, sighing inwardly, she let things run their course.

„If you will have it so, then we have to thank our current situation to you and your kind."

Castellano raised an eyebrow, surprised at last.

„Meaning…?"

„A spanish woman arrived in Port Royal some time ago", Will hissed between clenched teeth. „We do not know, what she has been plotting. But her plots brought us out here."

Apparently, this was news to Castellano, for he sat down facing them, his hands on his knees.

„A spanish woman, you say", he mused. „I wonder, who would that be."

„Crystabella Halvery", Will replied without hesitation. An amused smile appeared on the captain's features, and he raised both brows, being silent for a moment. Elizabeth frowned.

„You know her?"

„To say I know her would be indeed too much said", he admitted. „Yet the name is not completely alien to me. I did not know, that she was in the Carribean."

„What do you know of her?" Elizabeth's fierceness was back in full strength, and Castellano, after a moment's consideration, astonishingly complied.

„Very well", he said. „As a tribute to my weakness for a lady, whose temperament would be very much fitting for my own country." He twinkled, but Elizabeth did not mistake it for weakness, in spite of what he might have said. She just leaned back, ignoring the urge to send a grateful regard towards Will – there were times, when his reactions showed surprising results.

„In her youth, Crystabella Halvery had… a doubtful reputation, to say the least – as far as I am told. They say, that these days her sister, who is married to the Comto di Luciana, who is gifted with the king's favor at the moment, refuses to even acknowledge her existence.

„What happened?" Will asked, and Castellano smiled.

„That is a good question indeed. Do not get me wrong, good man. I am by no means familiar with the finer details of the court, or, god forbid, the Chavertez family. I can therefore only say, that I have heard her name being mentioned several times, but never in a flattering or positive manner."

„No surprise", Elizabeth snorted and thus once more coaxed a smile out of the captain.

„I take it you parted on bad terms."

„You can say that", she agreed heartily. „Let's just say we had our differences."

„One more thing", Will intercepted. „What kind of incidents are we talking about? Yes, I know, nothing specific, but… were they somewhat… strange?"

Castellano frowned.

„I am not sure, what you are trying to imply. She has a reputation of being untrustworthy. Rumors go, that she has traded… information. That she has, more than once, succeeded in distributing distrust among others at will. That her loyalities were… dubious, to say the least. All in all, quite a coup, I should say, marrying her off to England, like a snake in the grass, as you say. God knows, what use she made of her resourcefulness there…"

Elizabeth gritted her teeth.

„I guess this amuses you."

Castellano nodded, seemingly self-satisfied.

„I have to confess, Miss Swann, without meaning any undue offense, it does. I appreciate the irony in it."

„You are impertinent", Elizabeth informed him icily.

„Ah." The captain was untouched by any regret or offense. Smiling, he got to his feet. „And you are spirited. You are quite sure, that your ancestors were not spanish?"

The governor's daughter clenched her fists.

„How like one of you to insult me thus."

He twinkled, good-naturedly on the outside.

„And how like one of you to feel insulted, when I was simply placing a compliment. Good day, Miss Swann…"

He stepped towards the door and through it, ignoring Elizabeth's flaring up. She watched him go, cheeks aflame, eyes furious, but he evaded any tirade she might have showered upon him. And thus, there was no one for her to vent off her anger, for lashing out unto Will was never an option, not even when she was as angry as she was now.

The young blacksmith got up, carefully placing his hands on Elizabeth's shoulders. She did not flinch, but sat, stiff and unyielding, her fury still present in every part of her body. Will stroked her shoulders, softly, carefully even, for he knew – and cherished – Elizabeth's temperament, and in time, from the corner of his eye, he could see a smile entering her features. She was becoming more relaxed.

„He is toying with us", Will observed dryly, when he found it safe to speak again.

„Of course", Elizabeth raged. „He is spanish. What do you expect?"

„Well, he does have us at his mercy… for the moment", Will reminded her, putting special emphasis on the word ‚moment', as if making a point. „But he has given us something to work with, hasn't he?"

Elizabeth pouted, but nodded then, as if remembering.

„He has, that is true."

„Tell me, Elizabeth… what he said… does that sound like the Crystabella you know?"

„Yes…", she replied, „and no. She seems like a person who is charming, well, too charming for her own good, honestly. And who is used to getting what she wants. Who is used to people falling head-over-heels for her, and who is used to making use of all this. But…" she shook her head, trying to sort out her thoughts. „.. this does not explain Susannah's breakdown. Or Leonora's behavior. No, This Crystabella is similar to that that the captain described, but she is… different. As if the old Crystabella were a dress that she wore for convienience's sake."

Will frowned.

„I am not sure, what you mean, Elizabeth."

She sighed.

„Neither am I."

* * *

Fernando Castellano treated them with the utmost courtesy. They stayed in the captain's cabin, guarded, but not crowded, and the spanish captain saw to it personally, that they received the best of meals that the ship's kitchen could offer – something that did not mean much, but the effort was appreciated nonetheless. 

Of course, neither Elizabeth nor Will had the intention of staying very long. The governor's daughter had made it a habit of hers to escape from ships – a habit she was not unwilling to acquire once more in their current situation, and her fiancee, convinced that the errand which Elizabeth was running was really an urgent one, supported her in her actions. Of course, this was not possible, as long as they still were on open sea, but they had already searched the captain's cupboards for sheets or anything else that could me used as a makeshift rope in case they were nearing land and would have to escape, over the rail, or, if necessary, out of the windows.

Elizabeth had, after all, done it before.

Dusk had begun to fall again, when Castellano came back to talk to them again.

„I apologize for the inconvienience, Miss Swann."

He sat on a chair watching the two of them pensievely.

„Two months ago, a fellow captain, a decent man, as you would say, was unfortunately captured by a british ship. I think it was Commodore Norrington, indeed, who was responsible for it. Such a shame, he is good at chasing pirates, but if you ask me, he should leave us out of his dealings – he is much less fortunate in this. Anyway, as far as I am informed, he was sent to England, to London, to be more precise, for intelligence. Granted, maybe we would do the same, were our positions reversed, but then – there are." He smiled, but it was far from joyful, a cold smile that did not reach his eyes.

„So you are going to do the same with us", Elizabeth concluded warily.

„That depends", Castellano answered. „I might also agree on an… exchange…"

„But it would take weeks for the news to even reach London!" Elizabeth exclaimed, outraged. She was not inclined to waiting that long. Castellano sighed in outward regret.

„I am sorry, Miss Swann. I hope you did not have any pressing social engagements."

„Would it matter?" she pressed out between clenched teeth.

„Of course not", Castellano informed her friendly. „My hands are bound, you know? I follow the call of my duty. I am sure you understand." Elizabeth clenched her fists but found Will's hand on her arm strangely calming.

„Oh, and by the way", for the first time since he stepped by, Castellano cared to look at Elizabeth, brows curiously furrowed. He got up, preparing to leave, his remark more of an offhand nature. „I have been thinking, about Crystabella… now Halvery. I think there was another rumor that I heard, just before I left Spain, in fact."

„What kind of rumor?" Will turned around, but Castellano was already at the door.

„Strangely, I seem to remember that she was dead…:

„What?" came Will's and Elizabeth's replies simultaniously, but the Captain only smiled.

„Good day, Miss Swann. Mister.. Turner."

He bowed and exited, leaving the two to wonder – and to discuss."

„From what I heard of her, I would not exclude the idea, that she has feigned her own death, for some reason or other", Elizabeth mused. Will nodded.

„Or that this rumor is fake, maybe because he invented it, maybe because he misunderstood."

„Maybe." The governor's daughter was not convinced. They were sitting on the sofa, Elizabeth leaning into Will, for comfort and for the relaxing feeling of his strength at her back. One of the crew had brought them dinner, a simple meal, and the remains now stood on the table before them. They had eaten in silence, but now, as night had fallen, they were left to ponder the situation.

„It is out of question that we wait here", Elizabeth concluded. „There's no telling what will happen to my father in between."

„True", William answered. „If he intends to talk to any… superior, or at least to any contact, he has to approach land, right? That is when we have to move."

„To end up in a spanish colony, that's awesome." Elizabeth did not sound very happy. Will smirked.

„How's your spanish?"

„Rusty, how's yours?"

„Nonexistent. However, what do you think of the news considering Crystabella?"

Elizabeth took her time to answer. She thoughtfully placed her hands on his to draw them closer around herself, as if looking for protection. She felt his breath hitching in her hair.

„I don't know. Either it was wrong, for whatever reason, or that woman is not Crystabella Halvey."

„And her daughter not Leonora?" concluded Will in a questioning manner.

„That remains to be seen. I am not sure. She was so weird. Maybe she was Leonora. I doubt that in her state she would realize that she is not travelling with her mother.. although she seemed clear enough the last time we talked."  
„And that was", Will reminded her softly, „when she warned you. Strongly. She knows, that something is wrong."

„So maybe this is not Crystabella after all."  
„But if it isn't, who is it?"

Will sighed, but considering this point, he was not smarter than Elizabeth at all.

„There are lights out there."

One day past, at night again, Elizabeth and Will crouched close to each other, looking out into the dark. Somewhere far out, there were lights, a shore maybe, a light at the end of the tunnel.

„So this is it?" Elizabeth asked, but Will shook his head.

„Not yet, Elizabeth. We are still too far away."

„We have to leave, Will. Imagine what will happen, if my father learns, where I am. If she learns where I am."

„He will anyway, Elizabeth. I do not think that we can stop it. Like it or not, no matter his current state, he is the local authority. He will learn."

„All the more important", Elizabeth concluded, „that she will not be able to pick up our trace. Remember the storm, Will. This is dangerous. Really dangerous. We have to do something."

„I know." He sounded beseeching. „But we are still to far away."

„I can swim", she disagreed, annoyed, but he denied again.

„I know, my love. I really know. But this distance not even I would be able to swim."

Elizabeth shook her head.

„I have had enough of this. I am going. Are you coming or not?"

Will Turner hesitated, but one look into Elizabeth's eyes showed him, that he would not be able to change her mind. Thus, he did the second best thing.

„I am getting the rope."

* * *

Juan Marcellis was on watch outside the captain's cabin when they neared the town of Tortuga. It was not the first time they came here, always clouded in darkness, always silent, only the captain and some chosen few of the crew landing ashore in a small boat. The captain was meeting a contact person there, someone presumably close to the british, because every time they went here, it was on business against the empire. 

He had never been among the travellers, but today he was assigned to be in charge of the prisoners. They had been remarkably silent, but then, rumor went, that they were of noble heritage – maybe there was nothing else to be expected from them.

Even though at times admiring the appearance, Juan Marcellis did not harbor any fondness for the upper class. Born into a sailor's family he had known a life of hard work, and did not mind it, yet, he could not stand the lazy life most nobles were able to lead.

This, however, did not spare him from being curious. None of them had seen much of their recent guests, but speculations were running wild. The woman was supposed to be extremely beautiful – young Marco had discribed her in splendid colors, a slender beauty with blonde hair and large eyes, and Juan could not deny that he had thought about this quite some time.

The captain had left the ship already, and all was quiet. The night watch on the rear deck had sounded the hour bell, but besides, he could not see any of the others. Simon was sitting in the crow's nest, and his soft whistling was brought down to him by the wind.

Close to Tortuga, the world was dangerous enough, but the „Rosa" was heavily armed, too heavily to be easy prey. And even in Tortuga, people were not on the lookout for trouble of the shooting kind.

Juan decided, that nobody was paying attention to him. And that, considering how capable nobles usually were, nobody would realize that he had allowed himself a peek.

The captain's door was well-oiled and thus he was able to open it silently.

The room was only dimly lit, and a cool breeze grazed his face, a wind seemingly coming out of the cabin itself. For a moment, he was unable to discern details, but moments later, he realized the two things, which, at the moment, were important about this room.

First, a window was open, and it was the source of the wind that had grazed him the moment he had opened the door. And second, the room was bereft of any people.

Juan ran inside, but could only confirm what he had already estmated.

The window was wide open, a makeshift rope of sheets was dangling outside in the wind. And the prisoners were vanished.

Juan alerted the crew and ran to the window. But the blackened water below did not reveal its secrets.

* * *

In the water again… 

Elizabeth did her best to follow Will, but the cold water around her slowed her movements. For an instance, she doubted the wisdom of her decision. The lights of the shore seemed so very far away.

Behind them, she heard shouts aboard the spanish ship. Apparently, their disappearance had been marked, but the night covered their escape, and she hoped, that they would not be able to find them, at least not before they reached… whatever.

She had to admit that her plan had maybe been a bit rushed, but there was no denying for now. And thus, they swam for their life.

Hoping they would reach the shore before they ran out of force.

* * *

„Hey, Cap!" 

A piece of chewing tabac was flung over the rail, as Morris turned around.

„Something's down there."

Jay was at his side before he could even get a second look. They were, as a matter of fact, trying to close in on Tortuga unmarked – for some unfortunate reason featuring the captain, the captain of the Acheron and a certain young lady of Tortuga, with blond hair and wide, blue eyes, an unfortunate story which had ended in an unfortunate confrontation, leading to much bloodshed, no deaths and a load full of trouble.

All in all, appearing in Tortuga was not the wisest of choices at the moment, considering the Acheron's reputation, but unfortunately, their choices were poor. There were few ports, in which they could take on water, food and all the things a crew longed for after a certain time at sea, and thus, Tortuga was their goal. But now, something was nearing their boat, that crept along in silence, all lights extinguished, deeply in darkness.

„What is it", Jay asked, peering down into the darkness intently, yet percieving nothing.

„No idea", Morris answered, truthfully, for once. „Should I cry out?"

„Better not." Nervousness was seeping out of every pore in Jay's body. „Let's just wait and see."

But the splashing got ever closer. And as Morris leaned over the rail, he was able to percieve words.

„Will?" A woman's voice.

„Yes, love?" A man, strained, but tender.

„This may have been a bad idea after all."

„Nonsense. It is not far. I see the lights already."

„I see them too." Tired. Weak. „But they are far."

„Not as far as you think, Elizabeth. We will manage. Believe me."

Jay and Morris exchanged a look. Then, the captain shrugged.

„Why not? Silly as they are… bring them on…"


	37. The anatomy of a downfall

**Chapter 36**

**The anatomy of a downfall**

It was, without any doubt, the longest march James Norrington ever made. He walked, ignoring all possibilities of a carriage of a horse, step by agonizing step, through the streets of Port Royal. His walk did not go unnoticed, as he proceeded, and news spread faster than his stride ever could. Faces watched him from behind windows and curtains, curious children's eyes peeked out from nearly closed doors, and rumors passed like whispers, running wild and drawing out more and more eyes.

He saw none of them. His gaze was fixed on something that only he himself could see, his posture erect, chin up, but he did not see anything, did not want to see anything. Because once, he would be seeing what happened around himself, he was not sure, whether he could keep up his strength.

Upon approaching Port Royal, he had seen the scars. Houses bore the marks of a fire, on the docks, part of the barns had been torn open, wounds barely healed.

He had passed two dockworkers, arm still in a sling, watching him with silent accusation in their eyes.

Something had happened, while he had been away. And he had not been there to hinder it.

Up on the fortress, the soldiers stood motionless. No one came to greet him, and upon wandering towards the governor's residence, James Norrington felt more alone than he ever had in his whole life.

He was expected. News had reached the residence before him, and the doors opened for him, silent servants leading his path. He offered no explanation, did not utter a word, for he would not have trusted his voice, had he done so. He was led through the silent corridors of the residence, and for a moment, he wondered.

The town, and especially this house, were so awfully silent. No matter what had happened, he could barely think, that Elizabeth would not have tried to make an appearance upon his arrival, to shower her anger on him, or to show her support, whichever, but this silence did not look like her.

Dread rained upon him and he felt his stomach clench, yet, he dared not ask. The silence seemed to weigh tons, and he found himself holding his breath, as, without any further ado, he was admitted into Gouverneur Swann's study.

For an instance, he wondered at the appearance he made. In the simple clothes of the captain of the vessel that had brought him here, bereft of the comforting uniform that so much had seemed a part of himself for years, hair tied back neatly, yet his appearance much more scruffy than it had ever been. A moment of panic showered him – how could he appear like this in front of the governor – but it was too late and the door of the study was already open.

James Norrington mustered up his courage to receive his judgement.

* * *

Swann sat at his table, and Norrington, vibrating with tension, was not sure, whether he was supposed to be shocked or disturbed by his appearance.

The governor did not even look at him, when he entered. Norrington could not place, what was wrong with his attire, but something was amiss, subtly, yet unmistakably, as if Swann had not payed much attention on it recently. His eyes darted around the papers that were spread out before him, and he did not acknowledge Norrington's presence.

The silence stretched.

For endless moments, Swann continued his work, shuffling papers, picking up a quill to sign a note, the rustling of the documents, Swanns calm breathing and Norringtons agonized seach for air the only things breaching the silence.

„Gouvernor", he finally said, painfully.

Swann put down his quill in measured movements, taking a deep breath before finally raising his head to meed Norrington's eye. His gaze was devoid of expression. Dead.

Norrington felt a cold shiver running down his spine.

„I listen."

The Commodore closed his eyes for a moment, mustering up his courage. For days, he had been dreading the explanation he was about to make. And so, his voice lacked the usual confidence, the usual neutrality, as he reported.

He did not leave anything out, did not diminish his own, fatal part in it, his determination to catch Sparrow, that had had him abandon all caution, and that had, ultimately, led to the loss of the Dauntless.

Swann was silent when he ended, chin still up, but all forced on maintaining his composure. He had experienced quite some hardships in his life, but this was beyound anything he had experienced before.

„I trusted you."

Swann had turned his head back to his papers, and his voice was soft, unconcerned. Norrington took a moment to close his eyes.

„I know, Gouvernor. I can only offer my sincerest apologies, and I assure you that I am willing to…"

„That does not bring anything back", Swann intercepted coolly. „Or anyone."

„I am well aware of that, Governor." Norrington was pale as death, yet his composure was still holding. Upright, he accepted the reprimand. „And I very much regret, that…"

He stopped, looking for words. It had been years since he last that muhc had had to fumble for an expression, his betrothal included. „… that I cannot offer you any explanation beyound what I have given. I have done what I consider… considered as my duty, since…"

„Your duty?" Now Swann looked at him, and finally, his eyes had come alive. Norrington nearly took back a step at the fierceness of his gaze. „Your duty? Commodore, for god's sake, your duty is first to the crown – meaning, the representative of the crown in this area, therefore me – second to the royal navy, and then, only then, to your personal goals."

Like an echo, Norrington remembered his own words.

_By remembering, that I serve others, not only myself, Mister Sparrow_

When had it been that he had fallen…?

„What I did, Governor", he tried to regain his footing, but his voice was unsteady, shaken by the revelation of the loss of his goals, „I did on the best intention of protecting you and the city of…"

„… Port Royal, yes, I know, Commodore. But do you know what has happened during your absence? There has been an attack, Commodore, yes, an attack, an attack on this town, and there have been deaths."

Although Norrington had already feared this, he flinched at the governor's words.

„An attack…?"

„Yes, while you were out on your wild goose chase, there has been a very real pirate attack in this town. They have scavaged the port, killed civillians, wreaked havoc in town, and all of this, while you were not there to protect the city."

The reprimands stung. Norrington bowed his head, and his voice was subdued, quiet.

„I am sorry, Governor."

„And beyound all, now my daughter has vanished. Where have you been, Norrington, during all this? Where have you been? Where have you been, when the pirates came? Where have you been when she left without a trace? Where have you been…"

Norrington stared at him with wide eyes. The mentioning of Elizabeth alone had made his stomach jump, and it took some time for him to process the news, but before he was even able to formulate an answer, Swann continued, in an annoyed manner.

„Never mind. You have failed, Commodore. Failed in every way that I can fanthom. I have placed high trust in you, Norrington, and now I see that it is ill placed."

„Governor, I would like to apologize…" Norrington's voice was trembling, but still he was standing upright, all officer, but all that was holding was his sense of duty.

„No." Sharply, Swann cut off his speech with an annoyed wave of his hand. „I do not want to hear it. I do not want to hear any of it. I treated you like a son. Heavens, I was hoping that you would become my son in law one day, and how have you repayed me? Go, Norrington. I will have to decide on how to proceed in this later. For now, I cannot stand the sight of you. Leave. Get out. Now!"

Norrington backed away, step by step, deathly pale and trembling inwardly, and Swann did not even look at him, but turn back to his papers, lips pressed tightly together in anger.

The Commodore understood, that he was dismissed. And, maybe not only for today, but for always.

* * *

He walked through the town like a sleepwalker. Again, he was followed by gazes, by whispers, but when earlier, he still had been dimly aware of them, now they could have walked into his path for all he cared. He knew, that Swann was right, and the weight of his failure lay on his shoulders like lead. He had failed him, failed Elizabeth, failed them all.

For a time that he could not discern afterwards, he stumbled through the town, visiting places he knew, stepping by the forge, where Mister Brown was sleeping, as they say, the sleep of the just, but where of course young Turner was nowhere to be found.

He talked to no one and later did not remember where he had been, but he remembered, where he ended, in front of the blackened ruins of a small cottage, on the rocky shore of the outskirts of the town.

There was not much left of the home of the Delanneys. A few stones, a few wooden bars reaching accusingly into the sky.

A small stone had been erected, the handiwork crude, but with care.

_Maria Delanney, taken too early by malice and trickery_

_Susannah Delanney, taken by the sea._

_Missed by many._

For a long time, Norrington stared on the stone, his fingers gingerly grazing the script.

He did not know, what to think of it, what to think of her?

Was she victim?

Or cause?

* * *

Gillette finally found him, crouched before the tombstone of the Delanneys. He had given Norrington some time. Rumors had travelled far, and the fact, that Norrington had not come home on the Dauntless already spoke of what news brought the Commodore to town. He had given Norrington his time before he had gone out to find him, and now that he saw him sitting on the shore, he wished he had left earlier.

Gillette, after a little consideration, did not judge the Commodore. True, the last mission had ended in a desaster, but beyound everything Gillette was glad, that Norrington was back. Things had been incredibly tense lately, and he hoped, that now, with the Commodore back, he know – or be told – what to do about this. Norrington knew Swann much better, and could maybe give an estimation on what was going on up on the residence.

However, when he saw Norrington sitting there, he was not sure, whether he could rely on his assistance at the moment. Gillette brought him back up to the fort, and Norrington followed, explaining nothing, giving only the briefest of comments, and he decided to give him piece for the moment, because it was obvious, that Norrington was in no condition now to give any support.

He wondered at how different the world had become. Only weeks before he had been in this room, satisfied with the way the world presented itself to him. The prospect of marrying Elizabeth, the promotion, the governor's trust, all of this seemed to be worlds away, as if they were things, that had happened to another man, at a completely different time. The room remained hollow for him, and silence echoed from the walls.

The place was filled with meaningless things. Tokens, items of a life long gone, decorations, that no longer meant anything him, honors that he did not live up to, memories, that he found he finally was not worth having.

Swann's words had stung, and part of him had realized very well, that this was not the normal behavior of the usually friendly governor, but this was covered, overwhelmed by the knowledge, that what Swann had said, was the complete and utter truth.

He was guilty, in the purest, clearest sense of the world, and he felt it in every bone of his body.

He drifted through the rooms for some time, touching this item, touching that, not even changing his clothes, neither into a more informal attire nor into any of his uniforms, a stranger in his own, old life, when a knock on the door roused him, brought reality back to his attention.

He opened the door to find a concerned looking Lieutenant Gilette, his round face contorted in worry. Norrington fought for composure.

„Lieutenant. Come in."

He tried to sound welcoming, but failed miserably. Gilette complied nonetheless, his steps hasty.

„Commodore. Is it true?"

„Is what true, Lieutenant?" He was not as off foot as to leave such an inconcrete remark unhindered.

„About the Dauntless, sir", Gilette continued agitatedly. „That she is gone."

„Sadly, that is true", Norrington admitted, his tone devoid of any expression. It was not even difficult, it only mirrored what he felt at this moment – namely nothing.

„But… what happened?"

„I sailed her into a storm", Norrington replied dryly, stepping to the window, hands clasped behind his back. „I tried to catch Sparrow and lost a ship instead."

Gillette remained silent for a moment, jaw hanging open in astonishment, before he continued.

„But Commodore, that…"

„No ‚but', Gillette. I took a risk that was too great. I failed."

„Commodore…" Emotions were fighting openly on the lieutenant's face, fright, astonishment, horror, but finally, loyality won. „Commodore, I have heard talks of a court martial."

Norrington took a deep breath, straightening his back.

„I expected nothing else", he replied. „It seems to be a fitting response."

„But Commodore!" Gillette shook his head in exasperation. „That… that… and I am sure, that all of this was an accident, and besides, Commodore, things have been strange in Port Royal lately."

Slowly, Norrington turned around, face espressionless, yet his gaze fixed on the Lieutenant, a little sparkle of interest, a tiny flame not yet fully extinguished. The town still meant something to him.

„This guest of his", Gillette continued. „This lady Halvery. There is a strange atmosphere over there, really, really, really strange, as if everybody was walking on tiptoes. And best of it, her daughter, her daughter Leonora, came to me some days ago with a cry for help. For help, can you imagine? And when I went up there to talk to her I was turned down flat. As if she never existed. Besides, the governor's daughter has gone missing, and she is said to have talked to Leonora, several times. That's what the servants say. But in fact, nobody really says anything. And when…"

„Lieutenant." Norrington's voice was sharp as a knife, cutting Gillette's trail of speech and his trail of thought in two. „That is all speculation. On the other hand. Fact is, that I willingly endangered the life of my crew and the safety of my ship for the sake of my personal goals. Fact is, that this idiocy of mine cost the strongest ship of the Carribbean, along with two hundred and fourty seven lives. In the meantime, a pirate attack scourged this unprotected town, taking many lifes, how many I don't even know. All of this is my responsibility. That, Lieutenant, is fact."

„But Commodore.."

„Not that title." He nearly screamed, tension vibrating through every fiber of his body. „I do not live up to it any more. And now, go."

Gillette stared at him wide-eyed, but Norrington's gaze was steel. Only for a moment it softened.

„I thank you, Lieutenant, for your fealty. But best, not to side with the fallen, isn't it? This would be ill service to me, to you and your family."

Gillette hesitated, part of him obviously supplying otherwise, but after a while, he saw the wisdom in the words of his superior.

„I wish you all the best, C… Norrington", he said, subdued, before bowing, and again leaving the Commodore – or former Commodore to his thoughts.

* * *

And then, the stick broke.

He tumbled, fumbling for a hold, finding his table, but misery shook him, not in tears, but in an incredible tremble, that finally made it unable for him to stand, so that he slid down to the floor, curling into himself, trying to find something to cling himself to, but he could not find anything, and he couldn't stop the shaking.

Again, as happened more than once during these dreadful days, he did not remember much of what happened between lying on the floor and sitting in his cushioned chair, a bottle of brandy in his hand. Bit by bit, the soothing influence of the alcohol chased away all the thoughts, all the pain, to leave him adrift on a sea of nothingness, as if all the guilt had diminished to a tiny inconvenience, and for a singular moment, he understood, what salvation the lost souls of Tortuga found in the dreadful sting of a strong liquor.

He got up uneasily, stumbling through his rooms without any clear goal, taking this item into his hand, smashing another when he found the ghost of a former Commodore laughing at him, laughing, crying, at times humming a tune off-key, at times cursing himself, Sparrow, Susannah, before starting all over again.

The brandy gone he took one of the bottles of rum lately confiscated from a smuggler'sship and continued, far beyound noticing, that the taste, compared to the fine brandy, was vile.

Later on, his vision blurring, he took out an old box, a memory of yet another life, one of the few items brought over from England, a remnant of a serious young boy.

He opened it, as if to look at the beginning of the path he was now about to end, taking out various items. An old miniature of himself, a picture his mother had carried with her.

An eagle's feather, remnant of an excursion into the Welsh countryside with his tutor, a jade figurine brought from some faroff corner of the world, a present of his father.

The green and silver token, the last message of his father, a present sent with a trader's ship only days before his father's disppearance. A note attached.

_To my son. May he be faithful and strong, and never forget that to serve is to protect, and that to protect, resistance sometimes is the key._

Unsteady fingers traced the words, often read, all the more cherished since they were the last life sign of his father, often seen, often read and never truly understood.

He took the token into his hand, triangular shape, three triangles on the base of a fourth, green glass, with silver lining. It offered no explanation as to what it was, and neither had his father. How long since he had last wondered?

He frowned at the item. Something was different.

Only moments after, he realized the tiny rift at the base of the triangle, reaching through the glass, through the silver skelleton of the item, onto one of the faces. Norrington frowned and wondered, whether this had happened during transport to Port Royal. He doubted to have opened the box since then.

A charm

Like a voice in the back of his mind, persistant and unsilencable, and Norrington hesitated. For a moment, the toy he had often held as a child remembered him of a native child on a faroff island, an item of wood and leaves, a questioning look, but he chose, not to think about it.

A swigg from his bottle chased thoughts away.

So that there would be nothing left any more.

* * *

The morning was still early, a clear blue sky promising a brand new day, but he saw nothing of it. Like a sleepwalker, he stumbled over the docks, a pack in his hand, his eyes devoid of any expression. He did not turn back. In Port Royal, there was nothing left for him, nothing but the shame. Had he been the man he once was, he would have faced the shame with a proud posture, but he had to admit that he was not as he had been before. James Norrington, as it was, was dead.

And the man, who now, barely alive, left the british port for whatever goal, was not far from it either.

It did not take long for him to end up at the place of lost souls, there, where those linger, who have nothing left to loose, who are adrift on a sea of nothing, and he joined their lines without any resistance.

He learned, to appreciate the rum, for it silenced the thoughts.

He learned to appreciate the lies, for it made it easier for him to join them in there.

For all of his life, James Norrington had wondered, what kind of weakness would bring an individual far enough to end up in the wastelands of Tortuga.

And now, that he found out, he realized, that he would have preferred maybe to just not know.


	38. The shadow of four

**Chapter 36**

**The shadow of four**

The rum was warm and stinging in her throat, but the woman named Tia Dalma was merciless.

„Drink it", she advised in her strange accent. „Drink it against the fear, my child."

Neither Jack Sparrow nor Anamaria hesitated as she did and gulped down the sharp beverage, but Susannah, unused to the taste of any alcohol, could only bring herself to sip on it, earning a disapproving headshake of the native woman, that had placed them all to her liking around the table.

It was laden with items of inconcievable origin, most from the sea, some from other places, and if there was any order in them, Susannah was unable to see it.

Tia Dalma had invited them to sit and talk, first only Sparrow, Susannah and herself, but when she had seen the gaze of the your seamstress, longingly drifting back to Anamaria standing at the door, she had invited her in also, and so the mulatto woman sat next to them now, face stern, so very much not at ease that Susannah herself found it impossible to relax as well. Jack Sparrow on the other hand put quite an effort into the impression, that he was unmoved by his surroundings as well as by his company.

Susannah on the other hand did not know what to think. Tia Dalma had, beyound her vague words, not offered any explanation yet, and she was wiser than to expect any of Captain Jack Sparrow. However, she felt, that the spiral was reaching its center, that things were coming to a close, and that now, finally, she would learn what had happened during the last weeks.

„Now, Jack." Tia Dalma smiled openly, yet Susannah knew beyound doubt that what she was going to say was by no means a request. „Would you mind telling, what brought you here?"

He wheezed uneasily, swaying a bit to both sides as if trying to find a comfortable position to sit. Susannah was not sure that he found one, however, after a time he gave up and began to speak.

„I have had a bad feeling about a thing or other. You… Tia Dalma, that is", he added, with a look towards Susannah, „have given me a thing, a token, some time ago, to guard, as part of a… bargain we stroke." He gave an impatient wave of his hand. „Nothing grand, rest assured." Tia Dalma frowned, but did not say anything, just refilled her mug, then Anamaria's, and then, ignoring her pleading look, Susannah's as well.

„Go on."

„Ah, well." Jack took a swigg out of his mug, before leaning back comfortably and continuing to speak. „I might have been under the impression, that this was… well, important."

Tia Dalma's look was almost evil. „Ah, my lady, of course, everything you do, every breath you take is important, of course, of course, who would doubt." He smiled, and Susannah could not help smirking as well at the nonchalance of the man.

„When did that happen?" Anamaria intercepted, and Jack shrugged.

„Ah, well, some time ago. Must have been some time before… the Pearl."

Anamaria raised her eyebrows.

„My respect. So this is a very, very old acquaintance, right?"  
„Ah, yeah", Jack answered lightly. „Of course it is." He smiled graciously to Tia Dalma, who returned the smile openly, as if enchanted.

„Anyway, I guarded this thing quite some time, but lately I found it was… well… damaged."

He sighed in exasperation. „And since I, well, know, that the wonderful Tia Dalma never does anythign without a reason, I was worried…"

„And tossed the thing into the sea", Anamaria concluded dryly. Tia Dalma raised an eyebrow at that. Apparently this was news to her, and obviously Jack did not like that.

„You did?" Tia asked and Jack shrugged.

„Well… the heat of the moment, you see?"

„The way of the men, first to act, then to think", Tia Dalma commented sternly, then, with a smile turning to Susannah, „isn't it?"

The young seamstress shrugged, still to disturbed by the absence of her usual timidity, of her usual desire to separate herself from others in the presence of this woman.

„So, it is lying at the bottom of the ocean now", Tia continued, turning back to Sparrow. „Not one of your smarter decisions, unfortunately."

„What does that mean?" Uneasiness crept into Jack's face. Tia Dalma sighed.

„Well, Jack, what you had was part of a charm. And now, the charm is broken. And what it guarded is gone now."

„Add one, leave one", Susannah murmured, remembering. „The spell has broken, the prisoner gone free."

Tia whirled around, staring at her for a long moment, not moving, her black eyes meeting Susannah's clear ones. Then, she smiled.

„Clever girl."

And she turned back to Sparrow ignoring her once more.

„Tell those who don't know yet, what this token looked like, will you, Jack?"

And Jack, relieved of the easy task, began to describe, the green glass, the metal lining, the milky, worn appearance, the triangular shape of four triangular faces. Susannah, looking at him with a frown, did not even realize, how intently Tia Dalma had turned to watch her, not unlike a predator waiting, luring. And the wise woman saw the expression of wonder deepening in Susannah's eyes.

„I know that", she said, when Jack had finally ended and turned back to Tia Dalma for confirmation. „I have seen it. I have not thought about it for a long time, but I have seen it."

„You told me about it, sweetie", Anamaria reminded her softly. „We talked about it aboard the Pearl a few days ago, before the storm."

„No, no, no." Susannah shook her head. „This is not what I mean. I know we talked about it, and I know I described it myself, but now, that I think of it… I have seen it before."

Like fire, a smile spread over Tia Dalma's face.

„Yes, I have seen it before. It…"

She slowly turned around to Tia Dalma, uneasiness etched into every line of her young face.

„What are you doing?" she whispered softly. „What are you doing to me?"

Tia's eyes were wide open, as if in astonishment, but Susannah was not fooled, and for the first time, Jack and Anamaria saw her show true spirit. „Stop this", she said, with energy. „Whatever it is you are doing, stop this! I will not know what I am thinking, afterwards, will not know what is true and what is not! Stop it!" She raised her hand to her temple in useless self-defense, but the predatory smile had vanished from Tia's face and she raised her hand in a calming gesture.

„Only trying to help, love. Only trying to help."

Susannah stared at her, her feeling of ease gone, all protective mechanisms flaring up.

„My mother had one of these", she finally said, quietly, reluctantly. „She kept it in her drawer. She cherished it, I think, but I rarely saw it."

„She left it in your cradle for you to play with, Susannah. I can see the mark it's left."

She shook her head.

„I don't understand. Why would she do this? And why would you know?"

Tia Dalma sighed.

„I made them, Susannah. Long ago, I made them. Should I not know where my own crafts end up?"

Susannah frowned.

„I do not know who is wearing my dresses", she objected.

„But I know, Susannah, that at some point, your father was in possession of the token. And that he sent it home to your mother, as a favor, a present. And I can see the mark it left on you."

„What kind of mark?" Susannah asked, disquietedly.

Tia Dalma closed in on her, Jack and Anamaria mere spectators of a scene.

„Don't you know…?"

Susannah hesitated for a moment, apparently quite fit to flare up again, but either she thought better of it or did not find any reason, and after a moment's consideration, she bowed her head again.

„No. Maybe. No. Not as such. I… don't know."

„You are confused." A warm voice, a warm hand over her own. „And rightly so. But you will see, in due time, maybe. But there is one decision you have to make now, this very day, because otherwise the time will be gone and there will be no opportunity left."

Susannah raised her gaze.

„Do you trust me?"

The seamstress shook her head.

„What?"  
„Do you trust me? Do you trust me enough to follow me to the reason, why you are the way you are? Do you trust me enough to walk into darkness beside me, into the depths of the sea?"

Susannah blinked.

„I…"

„I can give you answers, Susannah, and ways, but only if you trust me and follow me. Will you…?"

She experienced a moment of panic, her breath quickening. A whisper, a whisper of trust washed over her, a question, a demand… do you trust me… and she jumped to her feet, took a step back, then another, looking at her in something close to panic.

„Not… this… charm…", she wheezed, and Anamaria jumped up as well, placing herself between Susannah and the witch woman.

„Not this…", the seamstress cried, before her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, silently, all strength gone, and everything that engulfed her, was black.

* * *

„I have to apologize."

Calling her from the depths of disquieting dreams, Tia Dalma's voice was warm again, power gone, only friendliness remaining. She was as changeable as the sea, Susannah absently thought while she drifted to wakefulness, not yet fully rooted in the real world. Her head throbbed and hurt, and she only dimly remembered the events of the day before, the conversation she had had with Jack, Anamaria and the woman named Tia Dalma, the strange surge of the words of the witch woman, the seizure of unexpected panic. Susannah was at loss to truly explain, yet, maybe Tia Dalma would be able to.

Frowning, she forced words to pass her lips, uneasily.

„What do you mean?"

„I am sorry, Susannah", Tia Dalma rephrased why she had come. Susannah opened her eyes and found her sitting at her bedside, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes smiling down on her, but the seamstress remembered the panic and was by no means unwary.

„What do you mean?" she repeted anxiously.

„I should not have done that to you, I admit. I had not… realized, how close you already have come to it."

Susannah shoved herself up into a sitting position, propped up against the pillow in her back.

„Close to what? I am sorry, I cannot follow you." She sounded only a trifle impatient, and even this impatience was measured, carefully dosed. Susannah did not easily loose her temper. And as of now, she was not quite sure what to think of the situation.

Tia Dalma sighed, shovelling into a more comfortable position as if settling for a longer tale.

„The question I posed you about trust."

Susannah uttered a sound between a laugh and a snort.

„That was by no means a question", she corrected sharply. Tia Dalma nodded.

„Indeed. And it does you credit that you saw this. Had I known what it would awaken, I would not have done it."

„What is it?" the seamstress intercepted, and again, the strange woman at her bedside smiled.

„Tell me, Susannah." She watched her with large eyes. Susannah took her time to consider.

„When I was little, my mother told this fairytale to me", she mused. „About a fossegrimm living behind a waterfall." When she saw lack of understanding on Tia Dalma's face, she continued. „A fossegrimm is a fiddler of sorts, a magic fairy gifted with music. They say, that fossegrimms play the most haunting melodies in their lairs behind a waterfall, and that many gifted human fiddlers have learned their art from them. They are free to give their art and melodies to the people, but if you come to learn from a fossegrim, you better beware. They are truly wise, truly gifted, but it is not in their nature to give and not to take. Because each new pupil adds up to their songs, and each new soul gives new melodies to their collection. The only thing they ask in return for music is trust, deep and utter trust, and love, maybe, just maybe. But once you give it, you cannot take it back, and you become part of the fossegrim's magic as well. And all you can do is play the lifes of those, that share your fate and cry in search for that, which you gave away for music. A fossegrim's pupil finds himself only in the fossegrim's music, so very beautiful, but without the music, he remains empty."

Susannah took a deep breath.

„I felt, when you asked, as if I was being asked by a fossegrim."

„Clever girl", Tia Dalma murmured. „You are not far off the mark, I regret, yet, I do not think that giving me your trust would be quite so gruesome. It is a bond, yes, but a weak bond, a necessary bond nonetheless, if you want to learn what you came for. I did not, and this is my mistake, think it necessary to inform you of all the details, but I had not noticed how close you have come to it already."

„To what ‚it'?"

„To that which escaped from the prison that has been broken. To that, which has been hidden by the seal of the four. Because it feeds on trust, Susannah. In a very gruesome way, it feeds on the trust that is willingly given. It is powerful in itself, and without this magic, but it is truly dangerous to those, whom it can trick into giving it their trust. The magic of loyality is a very ancient and powerful one, Susannah, and not evil in itself."

„But this is not possible", Susannah intercepted. „ I do not know how I could have been close to it. There was nothing."

Tia Dalma shook her head.

„There was something, I am sure of it, Susannah. If you would… I would help you try and find it."

„By doing what?" Susannah pressed into the pillows behind her and eyed Tia Dalma suspiciously. The wise woman sighed.

„I can help you remember."

The seamstress shook her head.

„Like you tried before? No! Leave alone my thoughts."

„Susannah… when I am doing that, I do not touch any of your thoughts beyound that, which we want you to remember."

„No." She shook her head again, firmly. „No, and that is final."

Tia Dalma sighed again, sounding disappointed. But even though Susannah feared, that she might have stretched the benevolence of the strange woman before her a bit over its limits, she remained calm and silent. Her heart was pounding, and more than the wrath of Tia Dalma, she feared what she was able to do.

Tia Dalma looked down onto her hands.

„Very well. Then we will have to find another way for you to remember… and you should try hard."

The look that Tia shot her was stern.

„I do not know what to look for", Susannah confessed.

„Something out of the ordinary", Tia advised. „Something strange or disquieting. Something maybe, that tried to gain your trust, or your promise of trust."

Susannah shook her head almost immediately, and Tia Dalma continued.

„Maybe only something that gave you an extremely bad feeling. Something which you feared without knowing why, but feared with all your might."

That indeed rang a bell.

„Lady Halvery", Susannah murmured, and Tia's head shot up.

„What?"  
„Lady Halvery", Susannah repeated, more sure of herself, and told in few words what she knew about the strange housguests of the Swanns, about her visit and the strange occurencies around it. Tia Dalma nodded.

„That is it", she whispered, almost reverently. „Lady Halvery, you say… so this was… a woman."

Susannah nodded.

„Is it always?" Her curiosity awoke and she began to pose questions herself, as if coming out of the corner in which the witch woman had driven her.

„By no means", Tia Dalma replied. „That which we are looking for, has no body in itself, but it is very powerful. It has been known to take other shapes – or abuse those, who were most trusting towards it in form of a vessel." Susannah shuddered. „Do you know", Tia continued, „whether this Lady Halvery is a… true personage?"  
„I do not know", Susannah confessed, then, after a moment of thougth, „but she should be to gain the welcome of the Swanns, shouldn't she?"

„Then maybe she is obsessed", Tia concluded. „What do you know of her daughter?"

„Next to nothing. I heard that she was very strange, very… withdrawn of sorts. As if she were drowsy all the time or something. Sometimes, I was told, what she said did not make much sense."

„Really…" Tia Dalma stroked her chin with all the bearings of a cat that had swallowed an overly delicious mouse. „Why, thank you, Susannah, for the moment. You have been a very great help."

Her smile quenched a little of Susannah's distrust. Yet she remained weary. Tia Dalma might be benevolent towards her at the moment, she still was a very, very dangerous woman.

* * *

„Ah, Jack Sparrow…"

Tia Dalma's smile was beamingly welcoming, warming up the room by his radiance. Jack hesitated, just the tiniest of moments before answering it, with equal splendor.

„Glad to see me?"

„Come in, Jack", she invited him, placing him at the table he already had sat at more than once, while she strolled through her room at leisure, looking now at this item, then at that. Jack, seemingly at ease, watched her with a confident smile.

„Nervous, love?" He asked her, smiling broadly to display, that he, of all the people, was not. Tia smiled.

„Ah Jack… you have not changed."

„It would be a shame if I did, wouldn't it ?"

„Of course."

Tia Dalma took a seat next to him, thoughtfully tapping her fingers on his shoulder. Jack, in response, even though seemingly following an automatic impulse, lifted his hand to carefully touch her arm.

She withdrew.

„I have found your task", she said, abruptly completely serious, playfulness gone. Jack blinked.

„Ah", he said, taken aback for a second. Tia Dalma smiled.

„Yes", she said in a long drawn syllable, fingering with a shell that lay on the table before her. Faintly, Jack noticed the sound of the tide coming into the river from far away, and he wondered why he noticed it in this very moment. He frowned.

„Why don't you tell me?" He proposed.

„Find Leonora Halvery", Tia Dalma whispered. „Bring her here."

„Who?" Jack made a face.

„Leonora Halvery", Tia Dalma repeated patiently. „As far as I know, right now she is in the Governor's residence of Port Royal. I am sure, this is not too great a task for you?"

Jack raised his eyebrows.

„Quite a thing, ain't it? I mean, this is dangerous. Quite a trick to pull. I mean, with Norrington to consider…"

„He is not of your concern", Tia Dalma intercepted sharply, then smiling. „And if he were, I am sure, you would be able to outsmart him."

„Well of course, but you see… this would be very risky."

„Jack Sparrow, did I not know better, I would say, that you were afraid."

„Cautious, so to speak", he evaded, raising his hands in denial. „Only cautious."

„You have a dept, Jack", she reminded him sternly. „You made that bargain already when you tossed the triangulum into the sea."

„Hardly fair, don't you think?" Jack disagreed. „I knew nothing of that, then."

„Ah, but such are the dealings with a ghost", Tia Dalma smiled. „And you will fulfill your debt."

„I usually do", Jack lied smoothly and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow, but Tia Dalma did not comment on that. Instead, she thoughtfully connected the shells before her, weighing them in her hands.

„Be careful, Jack. In Port Royal, there is much more to be reckoned with. And do not forget, whatever she says to you, whatever it is she claims to want, what she really wants, and what she really needs, is to be here, with me, you understand?"

She cast the shells, looking at them reflectingly.

„And be quick, Jack Sparrow. There might be things on your tail that even you cannot outrun..."

Jack winced. Like so often, in his dealings with Tia Dalma, he could not shake the feeling that he had come off on the wrong side of the bargain. Not a feeling he commonly enjoyed, but there was, unfortunately, no helping to it. He would do what she had asked for.

And if it was only because he was terrified.


	39. Kittens with claws

Savvy: They ARE quite the pair, ain't they:-D

Glad you liked it, and glad that I am beginning to clear things up... I am trying to enter the phase of writing where I answer more questions then I pose :-D

Chapter 38

Kittens with claws

The air had become considerably cooler during the last days, as they were venturing north, the coast of France gliding by far away. Their journey was nearing its end.  
Night had fallen, and a cold wind grazed the deck, where Elizabeth and Will had stolen a small moment of privacy amidst the usually hectic activity aboard the 'Lady Luck'. The name of the boat was quite telling, considering that she had indeed proven to be a lucky streak.  
Captain Hingisfield, Master of the ship, had taken them in and let them join his crew, the dubious aspects of their appearance none withstanding. He had not asked any questions but instead offered them a passage over to England, in return for their work aboard, when he heard of their final destination.  
William had spent some patient days trying to find out the reason for this generosity, but he had been unsuccessful, much to also Elizabeth's chagrin. Either Hingisfield was sincere in his open offer to do them a favor, or he was pursuing a path that neither of them was able to figure out.  
He had loaded off some goods at Tortuga, taking in others to bring them back to England. He was headed for Plymouth.  
Of course, Plymouth. It was not surprising, that the port that had been Elizabeth's last glimpse of her home country for so long, should be the first thing she saw upon returning.  
But for now, this was still a few days off, even with the faithful winds that surrounded them at the moment.  
The watch on deck was strolling on the other side of the ship, and the lamp at the helm was swaying in the wind when they met in the shadow of the bridge, leaning against the rail, Elizabeth bracing herself against the wood, Will circling her with his arms carefully.  
They had become used to life aboard. Things had been tense, in the beginning, for their appearance had made it impossible for Elizabeth to hide the fact, that she was, indeed, no boy, and among the crew, this had drawn out several looks that appealed neither to her, nor to her fiance.  
Will would have flared up, no doubt, had not Hingisfield been adamant about the impropriety of his peoples' behavior, and harsh words from the Captain had done the miracle that Will's determination probably would not have been able to do.  
And so they had worked among the crew, both of them learning a lot more on naval matters, than any of them had ever before, learning to judge the winds and the waves, and after a week, they found their way about the ship as easily as sleepwalkers, hand surely finding ropes and hooks and notches.  
But for now, everything was peaceful. There was no task to be done, and they were not bothered by the few who still were up and about on the deck of the ship.  
A time for silent planning.  
„What are we going to do, once we reach the shore?" Will asked, his fingers playing along Elizabeth's wrists. She shivered, as if cold.  
„We have to get to the countryside", she mused distractedly. „Some fifty miles along the coast, to the east, in a small village called Grandywine, this is where we must go."  
„Acquaintances?" Will asked.  
There was not much he could do to help, his contacts in England were sparse, if not nonexistent. He had never been there, and the few things he knew of the relatives of his mother were not much to go on.  
„So to speak", came the prompt reply. „If she still lives there."  
„She?" The natural question, but Will did her the favor to ask.  
„Nell. My nanny. Long ago, obviously."  
„Oh." Once more, Will felt separated from his fiancee, from the life she had been leading. This apparent sign of an upper class childhood for some reason took him aback. He recovered quickly, though.  
„How long since you last heard anything of her?"  
„She retired, when we left. My father paid her well, at least he claimed he did. She had a daughter, Anna, married off to the country, to a rich farmer, as I was told. Nell had always dreamt of spending her old days by the sea... or so she told me, and this is why she was thinking about going to live with her daughter in Grandywine."  
„And why are we going to see her?"  
Elizabeth sighed.  
„She has another daughter, Helen, who maybe still works in London, with a family that was friends to us. It was my father who organized this opportunity for her, and so maybe we can get a hint of what is going on in London – or where to go there."  
William nodded, slowly.  
„Can we trust her? I mean, it sounded as if you had precious few friends in this country at the moment."  
Elizabeth smiled.  
„Of course I can trust Nell. She has been my mother for years, do not worry. She will be glad to see us, and she will help us."  
„Hopefully", Will added, staring out to the sea. He felt ill at ease, walking in a story that was mostly Elizabeth's about to tread a path that was nowhere near anything that he had been used to. Superior skills with a blade would not help him to get anywhere where they were going.  
Elizabeth turned around slowly in his arms, watching him through squinted eyes.  
„Brooding?" she asked, softly. With effort, he tore his gaze from the pitch-black sea towards his betrothed, who, head tilted, smiled up at him smugly. For an instance, he felt, as if he were seeing her from far away, but only a moment later, the world found its focus again and he could not help returning her smile, his heart beating a trifle faster.  
„No, love", he replied, softly. „Do not worry."  
„As if I were." She raised herself up on the tips of her toes, brushing her nose against him. Her breath was softly touching his lips, and his smile deepened at the scent of it.  
„Elizabeth..." He could not help whispering her name. She was close, much to close for his or her own good, but even though he knew it, there was nothing that he could do.  
Her smile was radiant, as she closed in on him once more.  
And her lips... her lips were oh so sweet.

It was in the earliest hour of the morning, mist still hanging over land and sea like a blanket, when the 'Lady Luck' returned to the port of Plymouth.  
They had arrived just outside the port the evening before, but Captain Hingisfield, familiar with the surroundings, being a native of the town, had decided to lay anchor outside for a last night, since he did not feel up to putting up with the harbor officials late at night.  
The two rats, as he, and if only to himself, called them, fitting, since they had been saved out of the water, drenched, nearly drowned, had not been happy about it. Especially the young woman, who had quickly given up posing as a man after he had made it clear, that he had seen through it from the beginning, seemed to be incredibly impatient.  
Hingisfield had not learned what errand she was on, and it was not for any lack of effort on his part. She was remarkably closed-up when it came to this, and her fiancee was no better in this. He had soon decided not to press the matter – there were other things he had to do with his time, and they had proven quite capable aboard the ship, earning their passage and a little bit extra, and thus, their intentions were none of his concern. They would be leaving at Plymouth, anyway, and so, even as he stood on the rail, he knew that his time for finding out who they really were was running out.  
But then again, as already mentioned, he was not really all that interested to begin with.

* * *

„How long until we reach land?"  
Elizabeth worried with her sleeves as she stepped up to his side, the gaze fixed into the mist. The shapes of the port were hazy, the walls, the other ships, machinery to unload the vessels appearing out of the mist like ghosts, spreading wooden and iron arms into the sky. The silence was tangible, as if she could grasp it by just stretching out her hands.  
„That depends, M'lady." Hingisfield scratched his sparse hair under the tricorn hat. „Ye never know. An hour, maybe. Maybe more. And I advise you to go to the commander first, to notify them of your arrival. Or to... have a conversation with the port worker in charge of our ship, if you prefer that." Elizabeth pursed her lips, apparently disgusted, but she nodded, slowly.  
„Thanks for your notice." He tipped his hat in mock salute.  
„My pleasure it's been, havin' you around."  
The smile on her face looked truthful enough.  
„We have to thank you, of course", Elizabeth replied, smoothly. „There's no telling where we would have ended up otherwise."  
Hingisfield pursed his lips in thoughts.  
„Sometimes I wonder", he said, a small smile dancing around the corners of his mouth. „I wonder who you really are."  
Elizabeth twinkled.  
„Jess. But you know that, don't you?"  
He let that pass, maybe because he did not feel up to the confrontation, maybe because he was not interested enough, but maybe, the reason was not something as complicated as that, because in this very moment, Will stepped up towards them, putting his hand on Elizabeth's shoulder.  
„All set, are you?"  
„I am", she answered.  
And the docks drew nearer.

* * *

An hour and a half later, and still in the mist, Elizabeth and Will found themselves standing on the docks, each of them carrying a bag of waxed linen with them, carrying in it a few clothes and even fewer coins, hard-earned on their voyage over to England. They had made good speed with favorable winds, but their home country now greeted them with a typical weather, falling fog, that drenched their clothes and made them shiver.  
„I had forgotten about that", Elizabeth confessed. William winced.  
„So have I."  
„There is nothing like a golden memory being destroyed", Elizabeth sighed and shouldered her pack, as the two of them made their way up to the market, where merchants from far and wide had come to sell the goods to the citizens, and to those, who were about to embark on a voyage as long, or even longer, than the one that Will and Elizabeth had just finished.  
It was not hard to find somebody coming from the proximity of Grandywine. The merchant, standing behind a large stand filled with vegetables was only to happy to gain two cheap extra hands in return for two days' voyage along the coast on the cart that had brought him and his goods here.  
„Seems, that our fortune is not running out just yet", Elizabeth said, by way of triumphing. Will smiled, a bit uneasily.  
„Let's hope that it stays that way."

* * *

The rain was coming in great waves from the sea, where, somewhere close to the horizon, sea and sky were merging into one single blob of grey.  
Elizabeth felt, as if she never would be warm again. It had been pouring down for two days straight, since the morning they had left Plymouth to travel along the coast, and for the moment she was thoroughly soaked. But their travel was nearing its end.  
From a high cliff they could see the town of Grandywine, nestled close to the shore, the hills around the village rolling and covered with crops. The sea was in turmoil, crashing against the rocky land, and the town, lights aflame behind closed windows, seemed utterly and completely welcoming.  
Half an hour later they were standing in front of a small stone house. A carefully tended herbal garden spread out in front of it and inside lights were telling of a comfortable, warm home.  
Elizabeth and Will exchanged a glance.  
„Hopefully you are right", Will said, unnecessarily. Elizabeth did her best to confidently smile at that, but being drenched, weary and anxious somewhat spoiled the effort. She resorted to a look before turning back to the door, knocking.  
The door opened to reveal a plump woman with grey hair tightly would in a bun at the top of her head, tiny blue eyes twinkling, the expression in them alert despite her overly friendly appearance. She measured the two with her gaze, taking her time to judge and approve their appearance, before she even began to speak.  
„Yes, please?"  
„Nell..."  
Elizabeth's voice sounded strained and coaxed a frown out of the elderly woman. „This is... Elizabeth Swann."  
The woman shook her head vigorously.  
„Don't be silly lad. Elizabeth Swann is miles and miles from here, and I do not have the slightest idea of..."  
She hesitated for a moment, taking a step closer, squinting her eyes as if to get a better look.  
„Come closer, lad."  
Elizabeth, being quite a bit taller than Nell, bowed down carefully, as the old woman studied her face. Moments later, her eyes widened.  
„Goodness gracious", she exclaimed. „Lizzy, you are going to freeze to death standing out here in the rain! Come in, come in!"  
With suddenly awakening vigor she shooed Elizabeth in, only then taking notice of Will, who was still standing by, watching the scene with equal measures of amusement and anxiousness.  
„And who might you be?" she turned towards him, now subjecting him to a closer examination.  
„William Turner", he said, straightening unwillingly under the woman's authoritive gaze. She clicked her tongue in disprovement.  
„Ah, well, come in as well", she growled. „No use you standing there and getting all the more wet and ill."  
He complied, but as Nell turned and he trodded along behind her, he could not help smiling.

* * *

The cottage was packed, being obviously the home of at least five or six people – if the number of seats around the table in the corner were anything to go by – a fire was burning in a stove and filled the living room with a comforting warmth. Nell brought along some hot milk for both of them, placing it lovingly before Elizabeth, and much more matter-of-factly in front of William, who nonetheless took a grateful sip. Nell shuffled around preparing some food, murmuring something about the folly of walking around in this bad weather, scolding William for not better taking care of Elizabeth. The governor's daughter hid a smile and twinkled over to Will, clearly amused.  
„Always like this", she mouthed towards him, grinning, but then, Nell turned around, placing some bread and cheese before them, taking a seat only when she was convinced, that all of her visitors were comfortable and cared for.  
"And now, Lizzy, would you mind telling me, what brings you here, on the brim of night, when everybody believes you to be miles and miles away, and on top of it, with a young man that is neither your husband nor your brother or father? Where is your father, by the way?"  
"He is in Port Royal", Elizabeth replied after a moment's confusion, since this seemed the question to be answered the easiest, adding a quick, "and Will is my betrothed", defensively, whether in defense of her own honor or Will's she was not altogether certain. Nell frowned deeply.  
"I would advise you to start making sense some time, my dear", she informed Elizabeth sternly and the young woman sighed, in exasperation.  
"Where to start..."  
She did start at the beginning then, or at least, at something that was not all too far away from what could be called a beginning. She skipped the adventure with Jack and the Black Pearl, but she did begin with the arrival of Crystabella Halvery in Port Royal, continuing with her strange way of influencing both the governor and his household.  
"It seems, as if my father were in disgrace back home", she said, dismayed. "He was in trouble, from what I would tell after his behavior. It seems as if we were... losing support."  
Nell shook her head disapprovingly.  
"As much as I hate to tell you, Elizabeth", she said, suddenly reminding the young governor's daughter eerily of the days of her youth, when the pronunciation of her full name by Nell meant either the presence of someone the nanny considered respectable or a reprimand being quickly under way, "you are, as you, alas, have often been, jumping to conclusions. Picking up bits and pieces here and there brings you to a wild - and senseless - idea. I have been to London barely a month ago, to visit old acquaintances, and I can assure you, that the name Swann is still held in highest regard, for I always experience a little part of that glow."  
Elizabeth stared at her open-mouthedly.  
"What?"  
"The whole thing was", Will intercepted, trying to relieve the situation of some of the tension, "by no means a product of Elizabeth's imagination, I fear. "Do not get me wrong, I pray, but I have been to the governor's house, as a visitor, on a regular basis. She is right. If nothing else, then Governor Swann was thoroughly convinced of the disgrace back home.  
"We have been set up", Elizabeth whispered, incredulously. She shook her head, half in exasperation, half in disgust. "I cannot believe it. We have been set up."  
She turned her gaze to Will, who took a deep breath, feeling the same fury she did.  
"With every day, I despise that Halvery woman more."  
"And rightly so", Nell intercepted, all wounded pride. "That seems to be a true snake of a woman! If there is anything I can do to help..."  
"There is." Elizabeth's jaw was set, and the look she exchanged with Will betrayed her scorn. The young blacksmith could not help but agree. Just when he had thought that he had begun to understand what had happened back home, he found things to be not quite what he thought them to be.  
"We will go to the bottom of this", he said, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth's face. The governor's daughter nodded.  
"And then, I don't want to be her."  
Nell, watching the two of them with unashamed interest nodded.  
"Unbelievable", she murmured. "Kittens with claws..." 


	40. Wizard's pupil

**Chapter 39**

**Wizard's pupil **

"Who are you?"

Susannah frowned.

Night had fallen again and the tide had been rolling in during the last hour, kissing the poles of Tia Dalma's house with tender fingers. Jack and Anamaria had left the day before, and now she was on her own, subject to the dark gaze of this dark woman, that betrayed nothing and demanded everything.

"I am Susannah Delanney...", she replied, uncertainty wavering through her voice like a flag waving in the wind. The witch shook her head.

"That is but a name. Who are you, Susannah Delanney?"

They were sitting outside on the veranda of the house, Tia Dalma hunched in a rocking chair while Susannah sat in a hammock planted between the rail and the wooden wall of the cottage, swaying back and forth slowly.

"I am the daughter of Jonathan and Maria Delanney", she tried another way. "I am half english, half irish, but born in the Carribbean, and I have..."

"No, no, no." Tia Dalma was not even patient enough to hear her out.

"Details, minor nonsense, human made facts and figures, of no consequence at all. This leads to nothing." She pushed herself up, annoyed. "You are not even trying."

"I am", Susannah tried to object. "I have no idea, what you want from me."

Tia Dalma sighed.

"What I want, girl, is, that you search inside you. Tell me, not what others make of you, not, what you are called, not, what precious papers and files know of you. Not, what comes to you through different eyes. Listen to yourself, Susannah. What do you hear?"

The young seamstress gazed at her hands, as if the answer were hidden there. More than once, she had claimed just that, but that had been a lie made to make a living, another story not to be proven true. Her life lately had been nothing but make-believe, and she had known it, but only now, in the cleansing silence of Tia Dalma's sanctuary, she realized, that this had been, not a necessary show, but in a way something that threatened to inflict damage on her very self. Susannah turned to what had been before, unsettled, for a search for truth in these childhood and youth remembrances, but she was not sure, that she liked, what she saw.

A serious person she had always been, from early childhood on, seperated from others, frightened, alone, but not unhappy with it. Susannah had always kept her own company and liked it, resorting to watching and considering instead of participation, and she had never regretted it.

For an instance, she wondered, how the likes of her could be called, but she found no words for it. It was a feeling of necessity, as if nearing herself to somebody would inflict damage on that person, as well as on herself, and she had never truly found satisfaction in the meaningless chatter and careless blanter of others. Often, she had wondered about this, being a reflective person, and had finally resorted to understanding, that it must be something wrong with her, not with her surrounding, since everybody else seemed to be coping nicely. She groped for words, at loss, until she finally settled for the most basic, the most simple truth that she could find.

"I am... alone."

Tia Dalma, oddly, smiled.

"That, my love, is the fate of us all."

The rocking chair creaked upon the wood of the veranda. The sound was maddening, yet it had a calming note, as if it were the tide of the sea. Tia took her time, before she continued to speak.

"Your turn."

"Who are you?"

Tia Dalma whirled around to stare at her, and Susannah involuntarily shrunk back at it. She had been surprised at the offer of the wise woman, to play a game of sorts, a quid-pro-quo-situation, answering a question for the sake of being able to pose another. She wondered, whether she had been too bold, but Tias eyes only betrayed a sort of carnal interest that Susannah was quite sure to find unsettling.

Yet she had agreed to their bargain, honesty for honesty, and thus, she made herself to answer Susannah's question.

"I am, in more than one way, the sea", she answered, thoughtfully, and Susannah looked out towards the south, where the tide was coming in. It was floating upstream, salt water mingling with the water coming from the island itself,

Tia Dalma had turned to the water as well, softly whispering something the young seamstress did not understand.

"What do you want?"

The question came out of the silence, yet this time, Susannah felt more prepared for it. As if the sea had come to comfort her, she felt soothed, calmed, more at ease.

"I want to understand", she said. "Maybe, I want to understand who I am."

"Oh, yes, you do", Tia Dalma replied, sounding suspiciously like a grandmother Susannah had never known. "That I know."

"I want to understand", Susannah continued unbidden, "what has happened to me... and why. I want to understand, why I keep seeing all these things... and I...", she hesitated, continuing much more silently, demurely, carefully, as if scared, "I want to stop Crystabella."

"Now that is a goal", Tia Dalma said, her rich voice full of praise, before a note of sadness crept into her features. "And you will, we will, in time, and with due preparation, believe me. As for your other goal...", she sighed, "we will see to that too, maybe, but you may not be satisfied with the results."

Susannah, thoughtfully, pondered this for a moment before continuing. She took some time to decide on a question.

"What is it that makes me see these things?"

"That is difficult to say, dear, and I am not sure that I can." The rocking chair creaked again, as Tia Dalma sat it in motion, a movement as if born out of uneasiness, but nothing in her face betrayed any of it.

"It is a gift, of course, and a curse, obviously, for all true gifts always do come with a downside to them. You have been born with it as some humans are, rarely, and even among them , rare are those that posess the gift in the way you do." Tia Dalma ceased her creaking to be able to eye Susannah steadily from between the black strands of her hair. "You are part of the green island. Magic runs deep through the veins of this country, and so it also does within you. But this is only half of the story."

Susannah tensed, but stayed where she was, eyeing the woman before her attentively. "The other half is, that all of your life, deary, you have been touched by ancient charms. You played with the triangulum, and as your mark was left on it, it left its mark on you as well. You grew up in the Carribean, love, there is not quite a second place like this, a place, where there are more things, that are possible, more things, that are within your grasp..."

Tia Dalma sighed, sadly.

"You Englishmen, so easily throwing away the wisdom of ages ago, for the sake of your own pride and ambition. It is a shame, thinking of all that talent going to waste, but you have been here, and, even though not knowing, you have blossomed..."

"So I am... a seeress?" Susannah did not exactly sound surprised, tired more than anything and maybe a bit resigned. Tia Dalma chuckled.

"If you prefer that expression, yes, then you are, among other things, a seeress."

The young seamstress nodded, as if to herself, as if tired. Tia Dalma however had her next question at ready.

"What are you afraid of, Susannah?"

Again, she took her time to reflect on what the core of the question had been. Tia Dalma obviously looked for depth in her answer, and so Susannah knew, that she would not be able to resort to the trivial. On the outside, she knew some things to say that she was afraid of. She certainly was afraid of Crystabella Halvery - or whatever she really was - and she was, in a way, afraid of Jack Sparrow and his ploys. But Susannah, having been a reflective sort of person for all her life, knew to recognize very well that this was not the heart of her fear.

She was unsure how to place it into words, though.

She gazed out into the black water, an occasional moonbeam meeting with a rippling wave, a speckle of light amidst the darkness.

Tia Dalma waited paitiently, as if all the time of the world were at her disposal, as if not, somewhere in the Carribbean, a specter of old was running wild, threatening, tearing, gaining ground with every minute waning.

She found her answer at least.

"I am afraid of touch", she said, the tone of her voice being astonished, as if she were surprised at this sudden revelation.

Tia Dalma smiled.

"I know..." As if she were asking the questions not for her sake, but somehow for Susannah's, as if the training she had promised to deliver were already under way. But then, Susannah realized with a flash of intuition, maybe it was.

"I have never thought about it", she confessed, still wonderin. "But I... cannot stand... closeness..."

"Because closeness in any form makes the gift less controllable, love." Tia Dalma's voice was no louder than a whisper. "It brings about visions, images..."

"Headaches", Susannah concluded, pieces falling into place. Tia laughed softly.

"Yeah, child, headaches."

Finally, for the first time in many weeks, Susannah felt, as if some of the events in her surrounding were starting to make sense. She was not sure she liked it, though. It was one thing to give in to the illusion, that her isolation was a chosen one, based on personal preferences and a general desire to rather watch than participate, but it was another to finally understand, that the reason for her self-separation was, at least partially, not based on her own free will.

She remembered, how often, when she had felt at ease and relaxed, when she had liked the company of somebody, her headaches would have had the nasty habit of interfering, as if some part of her could not stand the human company. She had tried, frequently, to ignore these notions, but had given in to them in the end, realizing, that they were beyound her power to control.

She had decided, that, apparently she was a person, that preferred her own company over that of others.

But now, she understood, that she was maybe just a person, who was slightly insane.

She swallowed hard. She was adamant of not letting Tia see her concerns, and this she continued with her next question, one, that she had meant to ask all along.

"Why did you really agree to teach me?"

Tia Dalma sighed, unhappily.

"Did anybody ever tell you, sweetie, that you are much too clever for your own good?"

The seamstress turned her head to watch Tia Dalma warily, her eyes demanding an answer. Tia Dalma raised an eyebrow ad this sudden show of spirit, but in the end rewarded it with an honest answer. "Because I am hoping, that you can do something that I cannot, Susannah." The seamstress stared at her, wide-eyed, and Tia Dalma continued, almost thoughtfully. "True enough, I have woven the spell to contain the ghost, but it is not in my power to destroy it. It might be in yours, though, and this is what I am hoping."

Susannah shook her head.

"But why? Why do you think I could do this of you cannot? I do not understand..."

"Because this specter, is, just as I am, a creature of the sea. As much as the salty water runs through my veins, it is also intrinsic to the being that we are fighting. I cannot destroy it, at least not, without destroying myself. You, however, Susannah, bear magic of a different nature. I do not know much about your homecountry, but the gift you bear, is, by origin, a spell of the forests and glens, not of waves and deep water. You have, however, been in touch with the triangulum, and it has left its mark on you. In the triangulum, there was the power to contain the spirit, and I am hoping, from what I see and hear, that you have attained a part of that power as well. So, in short, I am hoping that you will help me."

"So you will help me in return for me banishing that specter hidden in Crystabella."

Tia Dalma smiled good-naturedly.

"In short, yes."

Susannah stared blindly into the night. The thought terrified her. She could not even remember her first and only encounter with Crystabella, and she dimly remembered the indirect confrontation that they had had in the storm.

She did not feel up to the challenge at all.

"So this is a bargain", she said, expressionless. The witch woman winced.

"So ugly a word..."

"... but so true", Susannah concluded, sadly. "Because this is, what it always is. At least, now I know."

She got up without gazing at her opponent once more, and turned her back to the stream, tiredly.

"I am going to sleep. I feel tired." It sounded like the lie it was, but somehow Susannah could not shake the feeling, that Tia Dalma would not care. She felt the overwhelming urge to be alone, to sort out all the new information she had gained up to now, and it was true, the witch woman let her go without any further comment, and stood on the veranda, gazing downstream, where somewhere, beyound her reach, the river was flowing ointo the sea.

* * *

The days following this first, real conversation were the strangest that Susannah had ever experienced. Afterwards, she was not entirely sure what she had expected from a tutelage directed by somebody like Tia Dalma, but in the end, she decided, that maybe she had had no expectations at all. Truly, if she had been forced to in advance to give an estimation on what her teaching would be like, she would have been at loss for any idea, which maybe explained, why, at times, she felt utterly estranged.

There were times, when they just sat there, exchanging stories, Tia Dalma telling her tales of the sea, and Susannah returning the favor with the old fairytales and sagas, that her childhood had consisted of, fairies and elves, the truth behind a veil, and she could not shake the impression, that Tia Dalma was taking these children's tales very seriously. Never, since Susannah had reached adolescence, had she doubted, that these tales had sprung from the folklore of her mothercountry without any true meaning to it, but now, hearing Tia Dalma tell tales of old charms coming true, she began to wonder, whether it was not, indeed, so, that there was more to these tales than met the eye.

At other times, she was learning to breathe. She was sitting on the veranda, sometimes even somewhere in the deep jungle, that surrounded the cottage, folding her legs under her body and trying to relax, trying to focus on something, whilst she was not quite all that sure, that she knew what she was looking for.

* * *

It was on one of these excursions, that she had found the blue cloth. Hanging in a bush, somewhere, there, were the thorns were especially thick, and she wondered at this sudden piece of civilization, here, in the middle of the wilderness, but when she plucked it out of the green, she felt a sharp pang of fear, of sorrow even, as she recognized, what she was holding in her hand.

It was a sleeve, blue brocade, heavy, rich cloth, though stained by weather and dirt, and it was bearing the clear marks of a military rank high in the hierarchy of the british navy. There was only one who could have lost it here, and Susannah, for once, experienced a moment of deepest worry. It had been some time, since she had last thought of Norrington, but now, that his sleeve was lying in her hands, she felt guilty for not worrying, and, following a sudden, wild thought, she wished she might have been able to help him.

"He was here, wasn't he?" Susannah asked, without bothering to turn around to her mentor, and without bothering to give her an explanation for something that, as Susannah was sure, was already known to her.

"The sea washed him upon these shores", Tia Dalma answered. "She often does these things."

"Is he all right?" The question was out before she could hinder it.

"He left again", Tia answered. "By his own accord. He is alive, and unhurt... as far as I know."

There was no need for her to tell the whole tale. Susannah had fully understood, that Tia Dalma had known of Norringtons presence, while he was here. If she had chosen not to act upon it, then it was for her own reasons, and Susannah could not fanthom them.

"We are like chess pieces to you, are we not?" The way she treated Sparrow, the way she treated herself, all of this was pointing to a conclusion that filled the seamstress with uneasy sadness. She did not like being dominated. Susannah Delanney had gotten used to being her own mistress, and she did not want that to change. It was, after all, the only true freedom she knew to have left. "You are pushing us"; she answered, "to where you deem us useful, and if we are not, we are sacrificed for the larger goal." The witch woman did not object, but neither did she agree. "It sickens me", Susannah added, with disgust.

"There are times, when it sickens me, too." For a moment, Tia Dalma sounded honest, younger, a lingering sadness in her dark, rich voice. "But me and you... we do not have the full extent of a choice. It is not only a gift, Susannah. You would do well not to forget this."

Susannah pondered her words. She wondered, whether she would be able to play the game Tia Dalma was playing, the game of slowly handing out small pieces of information, the game of keeping in mind and sight so many ploys to be able to plot in advance. And whether she was able to send someone out into danger. Susannah had always fought her own battles. But for the moment, she understood, that maybe these times were long past already.

"I don't want to", she said, honestly, and Tia Dalma sighed.

"It is not a question of wanting, Susannah. It is a calling. Like it or not. You can try and run from it, but we both know by now, that you will not escape.

Susannah nodded, agreeing.

"I tried."

"Everyone does." Tia Dalma had appeared at her side, and her voice took up her usual, vibrant, rich coloring. "Come, my dear. Let's go home. You have done enough for a day, and I would not want you to be cross with me. We will speak some more of it, in due time."

Susannah nodded.

But she took with her the blue sleeve, safely tucking it into her belt, and later taking it out.

As the light of the day waned outside her window, she sat on her bed, the sleeve on her knees, stroking, stroking the blue fabric, until she felt, she was tired enough to sleep, but even then, she stared out at the stars beyound her window and piece of mind and body would not come.


	41. Knife in the back

**Chapter 39**

**Knife in the back**

The human concience is a miraculous thing. Those, who are trying to understand the development of mankind throughout the ages, cannot fail to be astonished by the capability of humanity to adapt to the strangest and variest of circumstances, seemingly without any effort. Throughout the world, humans, in whose veins flows the same blood, who consist of the same mixture of skin, bones and tissue, have developed so many civilizations and systems of life, that a scientist of the human nature cannot help but be astonished at the variety of societies that have developed, and that, seemingly, are able to provide their members with some contentment.

Port Royal, these days, was a splendid example of this special adaptability of humanity.

During the first weeks of what Elizabeth would have – with considerable contempt – called 'the reign of Crystabella', the uneasiness of many of the Port Royal citizens – especially those who were in close touch with the Governor, had been tangible. But with time, people had gotten used to the new order of things, and when Anamaria, dressed up as a boy, a port worker on a stroll through town, took a look around, she could not help feeling surprised at the utter normality of the hustle and bustle in town. True, the governor himself had become more reclusive, the demands of the residence on the merchants of the town had changed, but only slightly, as she found out after some conversations on the market.

Still, there were the finest pieces of food, delivered from all over the world, to be brought up to the residence, still there were the demands of a master of the town – and of a lady, two ladies, to be precise, and they were very much the same as they had been, when there still had been Miss Swann around.

Of course, some things were bound to have changed. Young Turner's absence had, in a way, been marked, since the quality of the weapons leaving the forge had decreased considerably, but Lieutenant Gillette had known a cure for that, too, for one of the older soldiers had been a smith's apprentice back before he joined the navy, and he was assigned to take care of the weapons as long as there was no sufficient substitute for young William.

The ladies in the residence had found a new seamstress, and the latest dress, in stunning red, that Crystabella paraded when she visited the docks with the governor, did not betray that it had been made by Miss Stipple and her apprentice, and not, as it had been previously scheduled, by Susannah. It was, astonishingly, as if the irish family had never even existed.

Anamaria snorted in disgust at this display of forgetfulness. By her standarts, the dead or gone were remembered, sometimes even praised, and not punished with deadly silence.

She heard that Norrington had been here not long ago, and that he had left again soon after, to what destination the dockworkers she talked to could only guess, but from their descriptions she concluded, that he had taken the loss of his ship quite hard.

But none of these were much of her concern. She was here on a very special errand, and as much as it might be useful for that very errand to take in her surroundings, the concerns and moods of Port Royal's citizens, she would not allow herself to be distracted.

She was here, simply because her face was less popular than that of Captain Jack Sparrow, for it was less involved in recent disturbances of this town. And thus, she could stroll about the streets of the city, talking to the people and trying to understand what was going on in the residence without attracting too much attention.

Some of the facts she had learned about were interesting indeed. Even though Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner had left Port Royal already quite some time ago, neither Jack nor Anamaria had heard any rumors of their voyage before arriving here at their hometown, and the pirate woman was not exactly looking forward to breaking this particular piece of news to Jack. Pirate or not, the captain had taken a certain fondness for the governor's daughter and her fiance, and this might lead to unforeseeable reactions on his part. More annoyingly still, both Anamaria and Jack had secretly counted on Elizabeth allowing them access in some way to the residence of the governor. But as things were, they had to resort to another plan.

It was not easy to advance to the parts of Port Royal, that were located uphill, but Anamaria, resourceful enough to find a way, dodged her path around various patrols - absently she noted the astonishing presence of military patrols in the city, another fact that would make it exceedingly difficult to carry out what ploy she had in mind - soon found herself standing at the backdoor of the Governor's residence.

The building was surrounded by a garden, that also spread out behind it, up the hill, where the rims of the town were swallowed by the forest around. Anamaria squinted through the hedge, deciding, that there might be a way, at least onto the estate, through this passage, a forgotten corner of the garden where surveillance was considerably more lax.

She did not have too much time to estimate the current situation. A patrol chased her away, but she had seeen enough to be able to go back to the Pearl to report to Jack.

Anamaria left the town, strolling around the coast, where, an hour away from town, a small bay had Maroo waiting with a boat and a bottle of rum.

Now was the time to do the planning.

* * *

The pirate lady Anamaria's eyes were not the only ones that surveyed the residence watchfully that very day. Perched up on the fort, Lieutenant Gillette stole a glance towards the shining white building every other minute that he could spare. The view was the same throughout the day, the building was as silent as his inhabitants had been, and he was not altogether sure, whether he was disappointed or relieved at that. 

Gillette was, in spite of being a navy officer, no man of rash decisions. He preferred to ponder and then decide on the basis of known facts, and he strongly believed in the capacities of the human brain to find a solution out of, literally, every fix.

Although his current situation was giving him more than a puzzle.

He had taken his time to put together the pieces.

The unexpected and very strange visit Miss Swann had given him only few days before she had vanished. Strangely enough he had learned of her disappearance not when it was first discovered, but days afterwards. A servant of the residence had provided him with that particular bit of information, a man, who had seemed deeply unsettled for some reason and who, only a few days afterwards, had chosen to depart himself from Port Royal into the open sea on one of the trader ships leaving the area.

Gillette had felt reminded, uneasily, of rats leaving a sinking ship, but he had banished the thought for the sake of his duty and sense of righteousness. Strange as the circumstances had seemed, he had not yet been far enough to question the governor himself.

Then, there had been the strange incident with Leonora Halvery. Her cry for help had appeared completely out of the blue, and he had not known what to make of it. He would have liked to think, that she was just a young maiden pursuing a foolish idea, but he was too rational a mind to just ignore the facts that surrounded that very occurrence. Her strange behavior. And the fact, that the residence seemed to be more sealed off by the day.

After Leonora's appearance at the fort he had decided to act upon his distrust and asked for an audience with the governor to discuss necessities of town protection. He was granted it with surprising ease, but he had not liked what he had seen during his visit.

Crystabella had been present during his chat with the governor, and even though she did not utter a single word, but only sat decoratively in the corner of the room, embroidering a delicate pattern along a handkerchief, something about her seemed to be even odder than he had expected. The governor had been friendly, jovial even, expressing his appreciation for his good work in the past, when apparently the Commodore was not able to fulfill his place - at any other time, Gillette would have, if tentatively, objected against that - but something was wrong, nonetheless.

Only later, in his own quarters, thoughtfully gazing into the flame of a lone candle, he had noticed what it was. The Governor's eyes had been dead, completely bereft of any true life.

And it was that very moment, that Lieutenant Gillette had been gripped with deep and utter fear.

He had, however, taken up his resolve to act upon this threat that he could neither shoot nor throw into jail and resorted to methods he would, usually, have dismissed as being profoundly improper.

He had begun to question, at first only the townspeople who had business in the residence, and then, later on, the servants of the Governor himself. Some of them had been completely unsuspecting, claiming, that the Governor was 'holding up admiredly, considering that his daughter has run off', and insisting, that Crystabella Halvery was 'the most charming of women, and so very friendly to everyone, servants including', but others dodged any direct answer, apparently out of loyality, or maybe fear.

And this was enough for him to know.

Then, there had been Norrington. His return had made him hope for the competent Commodore to take the matter into his own hands, but the former Commodore had nothing to do with the broken, despairing man, that had returned from the Governor's mansion. Gillette had found him before the tombstone of the Delanneys, but he had been incapable of tearing his superior officer out of his reverie.

And then, Norrington had vanished, much as Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner, much as more than one servant from the governor's residence.

Gillette had ceased to sleep soundly somewhere around that time.

And now, finally, he had decided to act.

The only hint he had was Leonora Halvery. And thus, the good, proper Lieutenant had decided to fall back to desperate measures.

He knew the residence quite well, having been invited to several of the greater parties, and this night, he was decided to go to the bottom of it.

* * *

"Lizzie did what?"Jack Sparrow was about as exasperated as Anamaria had expected. She shrugged indifferently. "Run off with the whelp...", Jack Sparrow shook his head incredulously, turning towards the shore, where the mainland of Jamaica raised up in forest-covered hills. "When did that happen?" 

"That is a good question", Anamaria answered thoughtfully, sitting on the rail and staring in the same direction. "One would think the disappearance of the governor's daughter was an event well marked but it wasn't. Townspeople told all sorts of stories about it, and apparently nobody knew anything more detailled. And stranger still, apparently there was no search campaign.

"Ah..." Sparrow sighed, seemingly unhappily. "With the good ole Commodore gone, the whole place is goin' straight to hell. He is gone, isn't he?" He didn't sound so certain, not so confident, even though Tia Dalma's words had been quite unmistakably clear.

"Yeah, he is", Anamaria confirmed off-handedly.

"So, where's she gone?" Jack came back to Elizabeth, but Anamaria could only shrug.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Jack pursed his lips, swaying his head from one side to the other.

"The whelp surprises me."

Anamaria raised an eyebrow.

"He does?"

"Ah, nevermind." He waved off any discussion they might have had with an annoyed wave of his hand. "So what else is new in good old Port Royal?"

"Things are quite creepy there, Jack." Anamaria crossed her arms before her and eyed him warily. "Jack, whatever it is, that is going on there, this is no small thing. Do you really have no idea what this is we are facing?"

"None, whatsoever."He managed to sound quite cheery. "But this is not supposed to stop us, is this, honey?"

"Well, with Tia Dalma at our back..." Anamaria replied sarcastically and made a face.

"Don't be so pessimistic."

Jack pushed himself away from the rail, thoughtfully gazing towards the island.

"I'd say, me, and you, and Maroo, just for company's sake. We'll take it fast and low..."

He closed in on Anamaria, putting his elbow onto her shoulder, nearing his mouth to her ear, "just like, you know what."

"I don't think I want to know", she retorted, disgustedly. "You have a plan, or are you just hoping on improvisation?"

"Ah, Anamaria. To tell you now and spoil the fun of it? I don't think I want to do that."

She rolled her eyes spectacularly and shrugged of his hand with an annoyed gesture.

"You are trying my patience, Jack."

"... which is, as with most charming ladies, infinite, is it not?"

He smiled winningly, but she only pursed her lips.

"There are days, Jack, where I really would wish to have your confidence in yourself."

"It is such a burden", the pirate captain sighed in exasperation. "But for the sake of this world, I am willing to bear it."

* * *

"Would you mind telling me, what this is about... sir?" 

Romin Dorell frowned deeply at the fact, that Lieutenant Gillette had appeared before him dressed not in his uniform, but in simple trousers of dark hue, looking uneasy without his wig.

"In due time, Dorell", he answered, still not at ease, and bid him to sit on the other side of the dark, wooden table. Dorell, taken aback by the strange scenario, complied nonetheless and accepted gratefully a glass of sharp liquor, that Gillette handed him with hands, that were less sure than ordinary.

Dorell could not help but wonder. He had known Gillette for some time, and even developed something like friendship to the strict Lieutenant, who, like him, did service in the Carribbean with a family back home, on first name basis with the constant longing for the loved ones left behind. They had found out that they had both of them developed a fondness for riddles, and this common interest had ignited more than one comfortable afternoon discussiong one thing or the other, but this invitation had been peculiar, being scheduled at the brim of night, and now, that he saw the Lieutenant before him, he was not quite sure what to expect.

"Well", Gillette began, uneasily, fidgeting with the simple strings and marks of his shirt. "How to begin..."

Dorell waited patiently, schooling his face into an expression of quiet interest. One did not spend years in the military and not learn that.

"First, I would appreciate if none of what I tell you now would leave these four walls... unless after a time I decide otherwise."

Now, Dorell was truly intrigued.

"You have my word", he promised.

"Well... so to speak..." Uneasiness radiated out of every pore of Andrew Gillette. "You may have noticed that things have... changed... in Port Royal."

"I... have", Dorell answered, tentatively. Indeed, he had noticed the small changes of mood, the growing reclusiveness of the Governor, the subdued manner of the servants of the residence. He had not found any explanation for it, but he had been worried nonetheless. Just like many else, he assumed, but it was not in his training, and therefore not in his nature, to openly discuss the affairs of a superior officer, or even an person as elevated of rank as Swann was. However, now, with Gillette pointing out the same thing, things were different.

"I have... watched it with growing concern", Gillette continued, carefully. "And as of now, I have... concluded, that something is amiss concerning the governor."

"A valiant conclusion", Dorell replied, still carefully. He would not have expected Gillette to betray him this way, to coax any careless statement out of him to throw it into his face later, but his conditioning sat deep enough. As did Gillette's, if his uneasy shifting in the chair was anything to go by. The Lieutenant took a deep sip from his glass, refilling it with hands that seemed slightly less sure.

"I appreciate your... well... judgement... so to speak. Anyway..." He sighed, pressing his palms together. "The time has come where I am... deeply concerned as to the well-being of the governor, meaning, that I have decided, to, well..."

"You think the governor is in danger?" Dorell knew well that it was not polite to disrupt the Lieutenant thus, but the growing familiarity between the two had eased his manners.

"Yes... as a matter of fact... yes." Gillette nodded, his head bobbing up and down enthusiastically. "He is... well... not his usual self."

"I am not sure that I understand what you mean", Dorell doubted.

"He is not even missing his daughter." This was the point that intrigued Gillette the most, considering the intensive paternal concern that the earlier escapades of young Miss Swann had provoked in the Governor of Port Royal.

"That is, indeed, strange. It would mean..." Dorell shut his mouth, still unwilling to share too much, but Gillette demanded no less, watching him intently, and so he continued. "... it would mean, that he either knows, where she is, or that..." he groped for words and failed.

"... he is not reacting as he used to."

"Indeed."

Gillette took another sip.

"Beyound that, I recieved the most intriguing cry for help some time ago." He recalled the day that Leonora Halvery had visited him on the forts, and Dorell frowned deeply.

"It is not the first time that I find asking myself, whether she is, indeed, of a sound mind..."

"She seemed... clearer that day, if you take my meaning..." Gillette said, carefully. "Anyway. I have decided, that, as current protector of Port Royal, while the Commodore is... indisposed", he shortly made a face, "it is my duty to find out what is going on there. Which is why I am going to have... ah... an... how to speak... inside look."

Dorell's eyes grew wide.

"You cannot mean that."

Thoughtfully, he gazed into his glass of liquor.

"I am afraid so, Dorell. Rest assured that I have given the matter the utmost of thought. However considering the circumstances, it does not seem... wise... to approach openly."

"Ths can well bring the gallows to you, sir. I hope you are sure in..."

"No, I am not, but nonetheless, I just cannot continue to sit here and... watch." He pressed out the last words between his teeth, not unlike a hiss.

Dorell swallowed hard.

"I... understand."

"And I understand", Gillette continued, "if you do not want to have a part in this. I was only hoping..."

Dorell quickly considered the circumstances. Finally, his curiosity won.

"And rightly so, sir. I agree with your conclusions, if you forgive me for saying so, and if I can be of any assistance, hesitate not to ask."

Gillette looked, indeed, surprised. Hopeful maybe.

"I... cannot begin to tell you, how grateful I am, that..."

"Do not thank me yet, sir. Do so, if we survive this unscathed."

Neither of them were sure, that they were likely to do so.

* * *

"Quiet." 

Anamaria shot him an evil look, as they were pressing into a darkened corner to avoid a patrol of three soldiers, that was passing them by, marching in unison, their eyes scanning their surrounding alertly, but they passed before they could notice the two pirates hunched between a wall and a hedge.

"This is nice", Jack whispered, his lips very close to Anamaria's ear. Her back was pressing against him, and he was practically wedged between her and the wall.

"Cut it out, will you?" she hissed angrily. Jack pressed a kiss onto her neck, his eyes following the passing soldiers. Anamaria stayed motionless, apparently without any reaction, and only, when the navymen were gone behind the next corner, she took a step forward to whirl around and slap her captain across the face. Hard.

He gave a very wounded impression.

"Ouch..."

"Stop it." She did not utter a sound, but her lips formed the words over-clearly. Maroo, coming out of his own hiding place, grinned broadly, white teeth shining in his dark face.

"How about we continue why we came?" Jack proposed, constructively for once, and the two complied, turning around to the residence that lay still a little ahead. On tiptoes, he continued uphill. The white stone was glittering in the moonlit night.

Of all the nights in this place, Jack Sparrow would have hoped this one to be a cloudy one.

* * *

"Where are we going?" 

Uneasiness was etched in every line of Dorell's face, but he followed Gillette, as the latter was climbing uphill on a small path leading between the rear walls of some of the smaller trading houses. It was a dirty, narrow alley, water dripping around few cobblestones that made slippery footholds for their cautious step. Everything around them was pitch black. The Lieutenant stopped in his tracks.

"There is a hole in the hedge, somewhere on the western part of the garden. I noticed it some time ago, and I think it is time we made use of it."

Dorell shook his head at the madness of it all.

"This is bold..."

Gillette winced.

"We better not have ourselves caught, because there will be no explaining of this, I fear."

They reached the end of the alley, turning around the corner to find the fence and hedge before them, that shielded the Governor's residence from the town. There were patrols around the building after the recent pirate scourging of the town, but Gillette had, knowing fully that this would give them more room to maneuver, assigned Murtog and Mullroy of surveying the western part. With any luck, they were, by now, caught up in a banter of their own, leaving the coast clear for them to trespass.

Carefully, they advanced, when Dorell suddenly stopped.

"There is somebody awake yet", he realized, pointing up at the residence, where a window was lit with the glow of several candles in a window on the hillside flank of the house. For an instance, Gillette hesitated, but then he moved on.

"Never mind. There is no turning back now, Dorell. Whoever this is, we will just try and not get caught."

Dorell sighed.

"As if it were this easy."

"Couldn't you have found an easier way in?"

Jack Sparrow glared in disgust at the parts of the hedge, that tore and ripped at his clothing, almost tearing the bandana out of his dreadlocks. Anamaria seemed less disturbed by the thorns they were pushing their way through.

"I am terribly sorry, Jack, that I did not find a way of walzing into the front door of the residence. But since you haven't either, maybe you should just sod off or stop complaining.

"Ah, spoilsport", he replied, trying to reorder his clothing as he emerged from the bushes, suddenly freezing in midmove.

"Oups", he said, uneasily. "Someone's woken up."

He dove into the next bush, sending Anamaria and Maroo after him. With pounding hearts they hid, anxiously watching the light in the first floor of the residence.

But nothing moved, and nobody came to catch them.

* * *

"You are doing fine, my love. I am, as always, awestruck by your skill." 

Crystabella stood, bent over the shoulder of her daughter who was sitting at a table, laden with papers of all kinds. On neat piles, there were letters, notes, of different people, arranged in an order that could not be seen at the very first sight.

Leonora did not react. Thoughtfully, absentmindly maybe, she looked at the paper that was lying right before her, holding the quill away from it, so that the ink would not stain what she was writing. The script was neat, feminine, yet carried the hint of a certain impatience, that even showed in the three words that already stained the pergament, that was, unlike most of the papers lying on the desk, more of a cheap nature, worn, battered, dirty.

_My dear father,_

Thoughtfully, with the eye of an artist, Leonora pondered the words. Crystabella placed a soft kiss on the crown of her head.

"I will leave you to it, dearest. I have no doubts that you will manage on your own. I will retire for the night, as can you, as soon as you have finished this."

A muscle in the face of the young woman twitched, but she nodded softly, her head bobbing up and down in obediance.

And then she was gone. But her charm, as it were, was not.

Leonora picked up one of the papers, rereading them, which were written in the same, bold, female script, a bit untidy, yet schooled.

_My dearest father,_

_for your birthday, I would wish you..._

Leonora squinted her eyes. Followed the script carefully with her quill.

And then, once more, she dipped the shaft into the ink.

And the three words on the paper found their company.


	42. Through shards of broken glass

**Chapter 41**

**Through shards of broken glass**

„Who's that guy? Looks familiar, somehow, doesn't he?"

The voice barely found its way through the haze, but they had no meaning, no significance for him. A woman speaking, mildly curious, but not really interested to the core.

„He's been around, I think. I've seen him here before." A man's reply. Annoyed, rousing a mild ripple in the endless drifting.

„One more for the gutter, ain't he? Such a pity, he's such a pretty boy."

Accompanied by a giggle, sounding vain. For an instance he felt disgusted, yet it seemed utterly unimportant.

„I would expect nothing else for you to say. He is a mess, nothing more."

Annoyance slowly changing into disgust.

„A pity nonetheless. He looks familiar, though."

The woman again, pondering.

„That's because he hasn't had a decent bath in ages. They all look alike after a week or two in Tortuga, don't they."

„Except for you, of course."

„I, my dear Lise, am here for a different reason. And it would do you well not to forget."

Lise nodded, turning around again to look out for another customer to come by, while Theodore Almington shot a last glance to the barely concious man crouched at the table before turning his back to him to survey the other people present in the bar, and thus, former Commodore Norrington was, once more, left to his own thoughts and drunken ponderings.

He had been here for the better part of three weeks, but they had past like a day, or like eternity, in a blur of drunken nothingness. James Norrington had fallen low, and he knew it well. But he was, in short words, long beyound caring.

Before him was a bottle of rum, a strong, sharp stuff that burned and stung as he took another swig, but he had begun to welcome the feeling.

The numbness was cherishable beyound words.

It made him forget Swann's reproach, the precarious state Elizabeth Swann was in, made him forget the deaths of all the people that he had abandoned on the Dauntless. It made him forget, what a miserable, untrustworthy person he was, but time and intensive consumption of alcohol had pushed his barriers further, and now, as much as he drank, he could never completely silence the voices.

Never completely quench the dreams.

And it was not for the lack of trying.

* * *

Later, when the moon had already risen in the sky, he found himself again autside the tavern, leaning against a wall and staring into the moon that was blurring into two silver orbs, distorted by the influence of the rum, and as a cool breeze wavered over him, he was disgusted at what he had become. He had turned into what he had always sneered upon, a drunkard, one of the lost souls of Tortuga. He had been kicked out of the tavern, even though the coins he had brought with him were not completely spent yet. He could not even tell how he had come to be out here, kicked away from the source of precious rum, all had vanished in an unsteady blur of shouting and shaking, and before he was even able to remember, he had forgotten why he even cared at all.

He had been, in plain terms, fortunate, that nobody had recognized him yet. The former Commodore of Port Royal, the Scourge of the Carribbean, would have been viewed as a very special guest prone to recieve a very special treatment.

In a brief moment, he wondered, whether this was, what he had actually sought.

He wandered through the alleys and streets of the forsaken town, listening to the shrill giggles, taking in the flickering lights at every corners, red lantern showing potential customers the way. It was, indeed, one of the deepest cuts of his shame that he had fallen as low as following them once or twice, in his desperate quest for oblivion, but he had not found it there, not even there, agony tainting even what should have been a fleeting moment of undarkened bliss. He had been with women before. But what he had done in the days past made him sick every waking hour.

Not that there were truly many of them.

He shivered, as a cold breeze came in from the sea, promising a clear, cool night with northern winds, and he felt utterly cold, forsaken and alone. So much he had hoped for, so much he had longed for, but now, there was nothing left but the shame, the pain, the misery.

James Norrington curled in his fists, barely recognizing the pain as long fingernails bit dirty palms, everything dulled by the lull of the alcool. He could not resist the call. Disgusted, disgraced, trembling, fallen, he turned around to follow the lights.

* * *

Maybe her name was Lise. He did not remember, did not want to remember. Maybe her voice was the same he had heard in the tavern earlier, maybe she wasn't he did not care. She had large eyes, brown curls, and, only weeks before, he would, in his deepest despair, have called her the name of Elizabeth. But now, as he trembled, desperately seeking what he could not even name, he could not remember, where he was, images mingling together. Elizabeth Swann, smiling, confidently, not even knowing, that he was watching her, so close, so close to the touch, and the face of Lise – maybe – frowning, her lips forming a word that he could not discern, the flickering candlelight on her hair, brown curls, dark in the gloomy light, black in the gloomy light, large eyes, and a look of sadness in her eyes that took his breath away.

Norrington stared at the specter of Susannah Delanney looking at him with sad eyes, the slightest trace of a tear in the corner of her peculiar eyes.

She did not move a muscle in her face.

Crying out, he flew.

* * *

„Susannah." Her voice so soft, so tender, yet powerful, calling her out of her sleep and dreams. Echoes of it rippled along the outskirts of her conciousness, eyes, a feeling of being rocked... being pushed, confusion, pain.

Remembrance only came slowly.

„You have been dreeming, child", Tia Dalma whispered, a cndle in her hand the only source of light, casting unsteady shadows on her face. Susannah frowned, chasing after her dream.

„He is in pain", she said, softly, as if curious, as if sad.

A tender hand stroke over her temple, a soft caress, nothing more, yet the young seamstress closed her eyes against the warm touch, tenseness flooding out of her body.

„I know", Tia Dalma replied tenderly. „Eet is sad."

Susannah fell, her head cradled by the pillow, allowing the dream to shower her once more, taking deep breaths, caught up in her images.

„Yees", Tia Dalma whispered, satisfied. „Just like that."

* * *

His lungs were burning, when he finally stopped running, in the outskirts of the town, the cool breeze having turned into a soft chill. His breathing was ragged and he dipped his hands into a bucket of water, splashing the malodorous, yet cool liquid into his face.

It helped, slightly at least, but with the alcohol receding, remembrance of what he had done came back unbidden.

James Norrington slid down to the floor, burying his head in his hands. Not much more, and there would have been tears in his eyes.

He spent a sleepless night curled up into a corner as the effects of the rum slowly wore off, dull warmth to be replaced by shivering and trembling. A chilly night was replaced by a cold, cloudy morning, the air coming from the jungle-covered hills instead of the sea, a heavy, thick moisture coming with it. It made him feel sick.

He had watched the sun rise, another dawn among the many he had seen yet, and he would have loved to conclude, that this sunrise marked a new beginning, for him, for his life, but he was no fool, and he knew, that the recent weeks were not so easily undone. He stumbled to his feet, taking a look around. His flight had brought him into a part of the town that he had not visited before, but a glance along the shore made it clear, where the center of the town lay. Yet, this was, as he realized all of a sudden, not where he was headed. In fact, he wondered, why it had never occurred to him before.

* * *

„Why do I dream of him?" Susannah stood waist-deep in the water that slowly drew by her towards the sea. In the beginning, she had shied back from the murky depths of the river, but now, she had lost all fear of what might have been hidden beneath the surface. This river was Tia Dalma's and, thus, in a way, that she had only begun to understand, obeyed to her command.

She had begun to understand, what Tia Dalma had said, when she had talked about the magic of the forests and the sea. The whisper in the trees was something familiar to her, and when she closed her eyes, then she sometimes could discern voices, chants, stories from afar. She had only begun to discover this, yet, she also realized, that it was much harder to discern the same things in the water, where Tia Dalma apparently felt more at home than anything.

In her days in Port Royal, she had never felt a particular fondness for the sea beyound its pretty appearance before her doorstep, and even though she was slowly loosing her fear, the thought of actually feeling the water was something that did not come easy at all.

Tia Dalma was standing some meters away, humming softly to herself as she swayed back and forth in the water of the river, that formed a natural pool between mud and stone, almost like a lake, where the current was barely discernable. She seemed lost in herself, but Susannah knew, that barely anything escaped Tia Dalma when passing through the water. The witch woman had chosen, not to answer, but Susannah chose not to ignore.

„Why do I dream of him?" she repeated, more loudly, and indeed, Tia Dalma ceased her humming and opened her eyes, a sly expression in them.

„Well, why should a girl like you dreem like dat?"

Susannah frowned, shook her head before she even gave the matter a second thought.

„What a nonsense."

Slowly, Tia Dalma creeped nearer, her steps indiscernible in the water. Susannah wondered, if she was maybe just gliding.

„Eet ees?" she asked, smiling fondly. „Well, if eet ees, den dink of a better explanation, Susannah."

Susannah did her best.

„I... have made a prediction for him", she mused. „Some time ago. Before this whole thing started." Tia Dalma shook her head fondly.

„Beefore it started? When did eet start, by your measure?"

Susannah pondered this for a moment.

„When Crystabella came", she concluded, finally.

Tia Dalma grinned.

„Ah", she said. „And not, when a Navyman Norrington long ago sent a token to his son back in Eengland to be remembrance of his life and of what he found?"

Susannah frowned.

„A triangulum?"

Tia Dalma laughed silvery and turned, her back now to Susannah's face. She did not answer any more questions.

* * *

It took him only little time to find the cottage, nestled by the sea, somewhat on the outskirts of the town, much as it had been in Port Royal. A tiny building, hosting, presumably, one single room. All was silent in the morning hour.

James Norrington squinted his eyes and wondered, whether he would have the courage to confront what was inside. Susannah Delanney had been, in more than one way, a lingering doom on his life, and her name, her fate was unmistakeably linked with his fall.

Susannah Delanney was a mystery. She had never given any of her motives, her behavior at times that of a young, timid lady of the town, then, later, that of a woman shrouded in her own misteries, unwilling to reveal even her real name, to an aquaintance, whom she must – at least – remember. And yet, she had given him his father's ring.

Susannah Delanney played a game, and, unwillingly, he had become part of it. Yet, James Norrington felt, that it was time for him to earn himself some answers. He had, for a long time, chosen not to acknowledge the fact, that once more he was caught up in something, that had the makings of a legend, yet it was time to stop ignoring that fact. Susannah Delanney had a peculiar gift, and if her gift was giving answers, then he was bound to get some by now.

He remembered her face, her eyes, between strands torn by the wind, large, dark, unfanthomable eyes, devoid of any expression. She had so often avoided his gaze.

For an instance, in the middle of his stride, James Norrington stopped, frowning.

It was difficult to say, what gave him the idea, that Susannah Delanney, presumably also seeress Lucilla of Tortuga, was, or at least had been, very, very much afraid.

* * *

„So I have been dreaming, because he, too, has been close to a triangulum?"

Tia Dalma took a sip out of her mug.

„Thees is what you think?"

„What do you think?" Susannah retorted, warily. She had started to learn how to coax answers out of the witch woman, at times. Tia Dalma chuckled.

„He ees a pretty boy, in hees way. But yes. He has been close to a triangulum. You know, that it is a strong charm."

Susannah felt, that this was only a partial answer. Yet, for the moment, she lacked the will of going down to the bottom of it. Maybe, it was also because she lacked the courage.

„That must be the reason", she said. Tia Dalma chuckled again.

„Yes. That, and that you have sewn his sleeve into your pillow when I taught you of the protection charm."

Susannah, taken aback, almost spilled her mug.

„You told me to take..."

„... Pieces of cloth with a meaning, yes..." She winked. „Eexactly what I said."

* * *

Only when he came closer, he saw, that Susannah Delanney's house was nowhere near as calm as it had seemed. The door was not closed, but half-open, revealing a multitude of curtains that presumably shielded the entrance from the inner part of the house. And there was noise coming from within. A male voice. He frowned.

He hesitated, torn between fight and flight, between his own curiosity and the shreds of his sense of decency, that would have never tried to spy on a lady thus. Yet, if a woman escaped to Tortuga, to spend her time there as a charlatan, to trick on people and to live a live far from civilization – was she still a lady?

And if a Commodore ended up on that same island, drowning his pain in liquor until there was notihing left of him, was he still a gentleman?

The old James Norrington would have retreated, surely, but the old James Norrington was gone.

In the twinkle of an eye, he decided and approached.

„Have you looked into that chest?" That was the man again, his voice cool, matter-of-factly.

„Pin and needle. As if we did not know that she was here." A snort accompagnied that reply.

„She is not here", the first speaker retorted, angrily. „That is, in fact, the problem."  
„I doubt we will find any hints here." The second man, sounding younger, sighed in annoyance. „There's not much of a personal stuff here."

„She isn't much of a personal person, I was told."

Norrington frowned. The conversation that he overheard, did not bode well. He crept closer, tried to gain a peek through the half-opened door. Inside, the whole building was turned upside-down. Part of the curtains was torn down, the few cupboards were emptied, the contents spilled on the floor. Amidst the chaos stood two men, looking around searchignly. Norrington felt bile in his mouth.

„True enough. It was enough to fool us, so much for sure." The older one was in his fourties, his head already balding at the temples. He was sturdy-built and had the walk of a man, that had spent most of his life aboard a ship.

„Who'd have thought that, Captain. You sure, that nobody has seen her?"  
„Nobody in this stinking town has payed attention, that is the thing." The Captain seemed to be profoundly annoyed. „Too caught up in their liquor to care."  
„She won't be satisfied, will she?" There was a hint of fear in the younger's voice, blond hair falling into his eyes, hiding their striking blue. „This is going to be trouble."  
Almington snorted.

„No idea, why she is looking for her anyway. She's just a kid, not worth the bother."

Slowly, throught the mist of the hangover, the pieces were falling into place. They were looking for Susannah. And their intentions were by no means noble.

He reacted before he had even time to think.

„Looking for Lucilla?"

He did his best to lean in the doorframe in a casual way, his arms crossed, an amused expression on his face. The two of them jumped.

„As are you, I suppose." The Captain eyed him warily. „Ain't you?"

„Well... sort of." His lips twitched in something that might have been amusement or disgust. In fact, maybe it was both. „As a matter of fact, my intentions were somewhat less... noble."

Norrington was not sure, whether he should pride in the fact, that apparently his facade was holding and the two were buying his story. It was not much of a positive feature to be able to decieve with great ease. He was, however, not in the position to be so choosy, at least, not after he had revealed himself to the two men.

„Meaning...?" The Captain was squinting his eyes.

„I heard she was dead."

The two burglars exchanged a surprised look.

„How so?" The older finally asked again, sounding careful.

Norrington shrugged.

„Was told by some gaffer or other in a tavern yesterday night. Don't remember the details actually. Well, and so I thought I might have a look, anyway. What use is it, if she's dead? Someone will come anyway to get what they can."

The Captain twitched his lips in open disgust.

„So you thought", he replied in a manner, that would have made another Commodore Norrington in another time proud. „Who was that guy?"

„No idea, actually. The „Klabauterman". Some guy in a brown vest with a blue cloth. Didn't tell me his name." It was a safe call. The „Klabauterman" had been packed yesterday, but apparently, his two friends were unaware of this.

„You sure?" The captain tried to find reassurance, and Norrington was eager to give it to him.

„Yeah. I thought, that I might drop by here, afterwards, but I got sidetracked."

The Captain nodded.

„I see. Well, mate, thanks for the call. I fear, you are quite unluck though." He spread out his arms to hint at his surroundings. „There is nothing here of value to take."

Norrington sighed.

„A shame."

He was not sure, whether he liked the smile on the younger's face. „Indeed. We would have preferred to find her, anyway. It would have been..."

„Geronni!"The reprimand was sharp, and final. The younger obeyed. „You may have spared us a lot of trouble, mate. Thanks." He tipped an invisible hat on his head and nodded towards Norrington. „See you around."

A wave of his hand, and young Geronni followed, as they trotted out of the cottage.

Norrington watched them go, then turned back to the chaos in the room, why he had just done this.

And why seeing Lucillas scavaged room made him feel so utterly empty.

* * *

„I have to leave, Tia."

The witch woman smiled.

„So you have."

Susannah blinked, in surprise.

„Pardon?"

The witch woman put aside her mortar and turned towards Susannah.

„You have learned much, and quickly. But still you are afraid. Still you are avoiding. All the time. I do not blame you", she continued, as Susannah was apparently thinking of defending herself, „but you will have to learn to do differently, sweet. And this is why you have to go."

Susannah nodded, grateful, that Tia did not stress, that her strange dream had not given her any rest, and that this was part of the reason, why she felt, that she had to leave Tia's peaceful cottage.

„Where would you send me, then?" she asked, carefully.

Tia smiled, broadly.

„There's just one place, sweet. Go to Tortuga.."


	43. Hungerford market

I know, the silliest of excuses. But I left this chapter at my parents' home on my father's computer, and I did not come home for weeks on end, so, even though, the story is nearing chapter 47 by now, I did not upload the english version for very long. I apologize. I promise, however, weekly updates from now on, at least up to chapter 47 :-) Wish you all the best Spirit 

Chapter 42

Hungerford market

„... and the celebration in the house of William Pitt last month is supposed to have been so very, very exciting. I have spoken to the abigail of Lady Devonshire, and she was elated to no end. I really cannot see how you can bear it away from all that, Miss Elizabeth, so far off with all these savages in these lands... tell me, is it true, that they cut off the heads of their victims to wear them on their belts?"

The pause that Helen gave her to insert an answer was so brief, that Elizabeth would nearly have missed it altogether. Since they had been meeting in a tavern outside town, the woman had been talking incessantly, of life, of the court, of recent events of society, that did not help Elizabeth the slightest bit in what she was looking for.

No, this was not true, in fact. In fact, Helen's meaningless chatter of this and that had told her more than any voiced confirmation would have, that indeed, unlike what the letters of her father had seemed to indicate, all was the same back in old England. Nell had, the morning after her arrival, sent word to her daughter in London, notifying her, apparently not of their mission, but of their presence back in the old world. The old nanny had strongly advised them to join her daughter as a guide, since there was no telling through which of the old Swann channels the strange rumors of the changing of mood in the Royal society had leaked. Elizabeth had agreed, but the woman was proving very much of a bore. She talked incessantly, as a carriage brought them back into town, the houses and alleys of Elizabeth's childhood passing by.

It was a strange feeling, and not like coming home at all. In all her time in Port Royal, after she had, slowly, realized, that she was not made for the stiff, ceremonial upraising that her father had tried – and failed – to impose upon her during her adolescence, she had wondered, how she would have fared, had they stayed in England. Now, looking at the hunched stone houses under a dreary, grey London sky, she finally knew.

She would have perished, withered, slowly, yet beyound saving, and the Elizabeth that now, energetically, sought to save what she knew, would have never had the chance to emerge.

For an instance, she felt wild, utter thankfulness.

Will was no more paying attention towards what Helen was saying than she was. He was looking out into the streets, and even though he was, on the outside, the epitome of calmness, Elizabeth could see from the look in his eyes, that he was eagerly absorbing everything he saw. He had, up to now, never been to England, much less to London, which was, at least, supposedly, the Capital of the world.

As of now, there was no expressive sight. They were rolling through the cheaper quarters of London, safely hidden in the carriage, protected by its speed while they were passing through places where no man or woman of decency would tread.

She listened only distractedly to the voice of the maid that was now leading them to a tavern in the finer parts of London, when she realized, that, her apparent inability to stay silent nonewithstanding, Helen was a woman who heard a lot, and who enjoyed to share, what she had heard. Remembering from experience, Elizabeth knew, that she was bound to stumble upon many of those things, that were afoot in the London society, and thus, she decided to interrupt her.

„... and she was the first to introduce that weaving of lace into society, mind you, and it was quite a scandal in these days, but today, there has of course b..."

„Helen?"

Elizabeth turned towards the woman, who was still talking agitatedly, apparently not disturbed in the slightest by the fact, that nobody was paying attention to her. Helen stopped her tirade, mouth hanging agape in midsentence for an instance, before she plastered a smile on her friendly, yet a bit plump face.

„Miss Elizabeth?"

„Helen", she asked, thoughtfully, „have you heard of any incident lately, concerning Hungerford market?"

This question tore Will away from his survey of the surroundings, and he watched Helen, intensively, as she straightened first herself, then her bonnet. Her cheeks were aflame in eagerness and she was smiling.

„The Hungerford massacre, yes, yes." She nodded. „People have been talking a lot about that."

Elizabeth raised both eyebrows.

„Hungerford massacre...?" she echoed, but Helen would not even have needed that encouragement. This news was apparently a scandal, and she enjoyed wallowing in it.

„Yes, yes. Everything was very hush-hush, but of course, everyone knew. You know, knew not exactly what had happened, but one is bound to hear a thing or other, isn't one?" Elizabeth nodded sympathetically, and this was all the encouragement that Helen needed. „They say, that five people have died there. Horribly. By an unseen hand. Even in the court, they are talking about it, it is said. A maid working at the house of the Wilchesters' told me, that she was on the market, when they brought the bodies out. She said that there was a lot of blood, but, you see, dear Lucy always had the wildest of imaginations. Still, they say that they found a group of frenchmen in that house, plotting some wild scheme to murder the king himself, the king, can you imagine? It was all the rage of a scandal but there was so preciously few information leaking out, it was barely credible."

Elizabeth let her words wash over her, easily distracted by the implications of it all. Part of what Helen was telling her, made painfully few sense, but still, there was enough to it to understand, that something grave must have been going on in Hungerford, and she was now sure that it was, indeed, connected to the mystery that she was pursuing.

Helen talked on about aquaintances, that Elizabeth did not know, or hardly remembered, right until they reached the inn that Helen had chosen for them. A place, discreet and befitting, where an eyebrow was raised, when Elizabeth, completely on her own, came to ask for a room to stay, but no further questions were asked and Helen's assurance, that it was quite improbable for news to leak out of this place, sounded, at least to some measure, trustworthy.

When she finally sat in her room, staring out of the window into the cool London drizzle, she finally began to feel grateful for the help of the woman.

William, for the sake of secrecy and propriety, had arrived a good half an hour later at the inn, yet he had recognized her shoes standing outside her room and had lost no time in sneaking to her. Thus he was sitting on her bed now, one leg tucked half beneath him as he watched his fiancée gazing out at a city that had once been her home.

„Penny for your thoughts?" He asked, softly, and Elizabeth smiled in spite of herself.

„I don't know", she replied, honestly. „I feel funny."

Will stood, stepping behind her, a hand on her shoulder, softly stroking the nape of her neck.

„I don't see you laughing, Elizabeth..."

A weak excuse for a joke, but maybe it was just a feeling of helplessness. The closer they had come to London, the more distant Elizabeth had become, and their easy companionship, that had carried them through the first part of their adventure, had been replaced by something rather odd. Something was troubling her, and he could sense it, but apparently she had chosen to shun him out.

„Strange, then", she said, absent-mindedly. „Or maybe.. alien."

„You were very young when you left..."

„Maybe, yes." Elizabeth sighed. „I am not sure I like it."

William sighed, softly placing his forehead against the crown of her head, but words would not come and thus they stayed in silence.

Sir Charles Downerald had seen quite a many things in his life. A navy officer of his majesty, the king, he had travelled far and wide, when the now well-chartered courses over the seemingly endless atlantic sea had been nothing but a daring trial, when ships had not been carriages yet, carrying people and scoundrels like cattle, but brave spearheads of civilization, brazing territory yet unknown.

He had been one of the few growing old in this service, one of those, that always came back. He had had quite a reputation, in his days.

It was therefore safe to say, that Sir Charles Downerald, now at the age of seventy and five years, was not a man to be easily surprised.

He was, however, doubting his own hearing as his faithful servant Adrian entered his study, where he was thoughtfully staring into a warming fire, to announce the visit of a certain Miss Elizabeth Swann.

The face of the butler did not betray whether he was surprised, but Sir Downerald did afford himself the utter luxury of a surprised stare and several moments of contemplation, before he allowed the visitor to enter.

While Adrian vanished to comply to his wishes, Sir Downerald contemplated what he knew of his young – and surprising visitor.

Her father, Weatherby Swann, had, during his days at court, been a member of his party, and Downerald himself had shielded and protected the younger man's path. He had supported him, when his name had been mentioned as a future Governor of the Jamaican colony, and when Swann had hesitated, he had lain out the advantages of the carribbean waters with the most colorful descriptions, until Swann himself had given in and accepted the commission.

His letters had been friendly, thankful, and proud ever since. Below all the british stiffness, Downerald was sure to see a deep satisfaction of watching something grow, and he had felt that he had done well in his advice.

As for Elizabeth Swann, who had been an intelligent, yet extraordinary girl when she had left, Weatherby Swann had only told him about her what he estimated to be the most chaste facts, scratching the surface but not more. He would have expected Elizabeth to grow to a spirited, strong young woman, and now he saw himself confirmed.

The woman now entering his room was exactly what he would have expected to see.

Beautiful, exquisitely so, with curls just a bit too unruly to be neat, clothed in a dress that was maybe a bit to simple for her standing, yet she wore it in a manner that made it seem almost kingly. She was slender to the point of being skinny, with large eyes and a determined posture that, above anything else, convinced him, that this was by no means a social call.

She was followed by a man of about her age, in simpler clothes, with dark hair and kind eyes, who, unlike Elizabeth, who like a hunting hawk fixed her gaze on Downerald immediately, took in his surroundings with surprising intensity.

The old Lord raised himself with considerable difficulty.

„Miss Swann", he acknowledged her presence, and she replied with the most formal of curtsies, a movement, that told Downerald's experienced eyes of her practise in these arts as well as her impatience.

„My Lord", she replied, trying to look demure and failing utterly. „This is my fiancé, William Turner of Port Royal."

Downerald raised an eyebrow, yet refrained from commenting. The unease with which young William Turner moved within these halls spoke whole volumes of his social standing. He doubted that Weatherby would have fully approved this, but he did not doubt the determination of young Miss Swann.

He gestured for them to sit, and both complied, gratefully recieving the refreshments he offered them. Elizabeth Swann was quite proficient in the fine art of small talk, and they exchanged pleasantries, while Downerald tried to create an atmosphere that made both of them feel comfortable.

He had, since his navy days, had much experienced in that finer art.

„Now tell me, Miss Swann", he finally turned towards the obvious reason for their visit, that kept hanging between their words, „what the true reason for the visit might be." She hid her surprise well, as Downerald twinkled good-naturedly in the manner of an old grandfather scolding a child.

„There is... indeed a special reason for my visit", she replied, thoughtfully. „Please, my Lord, would you tell me... how are my father's standings with the king?"

Downerald frowned. He would have expected a wild story that had young Miss Swann and Mister Turner brought to England, on a runaway path from possibly a more suitable match for Elizabeth, but this question was quite out of the ordinary, and he pondered it for a bit.

„I would say, that I know nothing of any shadow lying on these standings, Miss Swann", he finally replied, truthfully, and the way she pressed her lips into a small slit betrayed, that she surprisingly did not like this. „Why is it you are asking?"

„Because we have reason to believe otherwise", she replied openly. „Among other things because of letters from you."

Now, finally, she had surprised the old fox, and Downerald twinkled surprisedly.

„From me? I have not written to your father in..."

„Have you not?"

Her voice was sharp, and she nestled a paper from a hiding place on her belt, holding it towards him fiercely.

Downerald frowned, then waved her towards him.

„Move closer, Miss Swann, pray, my eyes are not what they used to be." A whistful smile, carefully dosed, lacked effect, and thus he turned towards what she was handing him, carefully examining script and meaning.

„Interesting", he replied, finally."

„Interesting?" The first time William Turner spoke without being adressed, and his voice was just as sharp as his fiancees. Downerald wondered, what kind of pressure it was that the two of them found themselves under, but the paper gave him a good hint.

„This is a fake, Mister Turner", he explained, „although I have to admit, that it is indeed skillfully done. The seal... the script..." He turned it about in his hands, thoughtfully. „Skillful indeed."

Elizabeth nodded, then shook her head.

„I had feared so."

„I wonder... who might have done this? There are few, who are able to fake with such an accuracy."

„What does this mean?" William intercepted. Apparently patience was a feat of neither of them.

„I was wondering... have there been any more of these?"

Elizabeth nodded.

„There have, and not only of you. Prominent names among London society."

„Therefore the faker must have been familiar with London."

„And yet able to sneak these between my father's courrier."

Downerald nodded, now intrigued. Throughout his life, he had loved mysteries, and he had spent much of his time in London on them after he had quit the military service. He was a member of his majesty's investigation officers, by extraordinary order, and he was proud of it. A feat of vanity maybe, but he discarded it as the folly of an old man.

„Has there anyone close to you arrived in Port Royal lately?"

Elizabeth and William exchanged looks.

„The Halverys."

None of them were prepared for the paling of their host, or for the soft clank, as the paper, seal still attached, hit the floor, the wax breaking into a dozen pieces.

„Who do you mean by 'the Halverys'?"

„Crystabella", Elizabeth replied promptly. „And her daughter Leonora."

„If you excuse me", Downerald shook his head in disagreement. „That is quite impossible. Crystabella Halvery, I fail to regret to say, is dead."

„We have heard that rumor, too", Will informed him agitatedly, yet he felt compelled to shake his head once more.

„That is, my young friend, very far from being a rumor indeed. I have seen her body, and I am quite sure, that she was, indeed, in that moment very much dead."

„She died at Hungerford market, didn't she?"

Elizabeth's eyes were aglow, as apparently, pieces, that Downerald had no knowledge of, fell into place.

„I do not know, where you have acquired that particular bit of information", Downerald replied, quite a bit off foot, but Elizabeth stormed on.

„Please, my Lord, really. There are really strange things afoot back home, and to sort it out, I have to know what happened at Hungerford. You have to tell me. For my father's sake, if nothing else."

Downerald considered the matter for a moment, then nodded, as if coming to a decision.

„Very well. But I must insist that you treat this information with care. It is, as you may have guessed, quite a peculiar story, and potentially dangerous as well."


	44. Dew

**Chapter 43**

**Dew**

For a brief moment, Leonora Halvery mused on the subject of reflections. This, obviously unusual train of thought may have had several reasons, independent one of the other. It was, triggered, maybe, by the way, that the light of the chandelier reflected in the open window, that gave out onto the rolling hills behind Port Royal, dark velvet blue in the night below a starry sky.

Leonora gazed into the lights wondering about reflections.

It was in this very moment, that in the room next door, a woman, that was not quite what she had seemed to be, lay down to sleep, and for a brief instance, the grip on her not-quite-daughter's mind had loosened, leaving her to her thoughts about strange things of no substance, such as the very foreign person of Leonora Halvery.

Her name had an alien sound to her own ears.

And staring at the reflections in the glass, she wondered, when it was, that she had… reflected.. upon anything, lately.

She remembered white, dimly, at the edge of her conscience, a day upon a fort of blurring white, the sky full of thin clouds that diffused the light and pained the eyes. She remembered white, like clarity, remembered fear, and a driving necessity burning like the strange sky, and she remembered the fort, but she did not remember, what had happened there.

A soft breeze moved the window, and the reflections blurred.

All of them.

Crystabella Halvery, starting to dream, gripped her mind again.

* * *

"This house is a maze!"

Even though Jack Sparrow was wise enough to lower his voice to a mere whisper, his irritation was tangible. Upon climbing into a window in the first floor, they had dodged a servant coming from the kitchen and moving over to some part of the house where Anamaria – out of experience from early childhood – estimated that the servants were sleeping.

All was quiet now.

They had quietly passed the hall, climbing up the stairs to the second floor, hoping for any streak of luck, but apparently, it had deserted them for a moment, because the two silent rows of doors in the darkness did not betray any information on who the inhabitants might be. It was, without any doubt, the part of the house where nobility resided. The carpet on the floor was thick and thankfully swallowed any sound their feet could make, little tables completing the picture of thick mahagoni doors that openly told any visitor of the wealth of the inhabitant of this house. There were pictures on the wall, but in the blackness of the night, the images could not be discerned, swallowed by the dark much like a lot of things.

"This is a governor's house", Anamaria replied. "I thought you had been here before."

"Ah… well… I had to decline Lizzie's invitation, unfortunately", he replied, with bravado. "But this cannot be so difficult." His fingers tipped thoughtfully on his lips, looking very much at ease standing in a deserted corridor in the middle of the night. Time ticked by mercilessly, but only seconds later, Jack turned around grinning devilishly.

"Come with me", he advised, self-confident, and without even waiting for her reaction, he disappeared silently back down the stairs. Anamaria, openly discontented, followed.

* * *

Unlike the pirate Jack Sparrow, Captain Gilette would have known very well where to look for the young lady, that was the center of almost everybody's attention in this very night. Not long ago, he had been the guest of the governor, and he had been introduced to the formidable Crystabella Halvery, whose friendly, confident behaviour had long since ceased to have a calming influence on her. He did not trust her. Which was, after all, why he was here.

So, Gillette would maybe have found it a lot easier to navigate around the Swann mansion. He lacked, however, the chuzpe and bravado that characterized the actions of Jack Sparrow. He was by no means a coward, but he had never attempted his hand at burglary before, and even though, in long, sleepless nights, he had finally come to the conclusion, that this course of action was the only one that promised success, he did not always succeed in silencing the little voice inside him, that told him what he did was awfully wrong.

Beyond that, one needed quite a lot of audacity to enter a house, where a moving candle in the first floor showed very well, that not everybody inside was asleep.

Gillette exchanged a helpless glance with Dorell, who responded with a shrug.

The lieutenant hesitated, taking a look towards the entrance of the residence, where two of his own men – not the most capable ones, to be precise – were on their watch or pretending to do so. At least on that front, there was nothing disquieting to be seen yet.

As he turned back, he found himself deserted, and his companion closer to the window, that gave in to the room, where the lone candle was making an unsteady way.

Dorell waved him to follow and after taking a deep breath he did so.

When he arrived at the window, perched between two thick bushes full of flowers, the light had vanished.

The two navymen exchanged looks, and the slight shrug of Dorell's shoulders told that he was as clueless as Gillette with respect to the vanishing candle.

But something inside the silent room was moving.

If he had estimated correctly, this should be the small conference room that Weatherby Swann used for the more private meetings, when he did not expect to need many of his papers, when the meeting was more of a conversational nature. Gillette had been subject to such a conversation only once, and he remembered with unease the light, friendly atmosphere that the Governor and Lady Halvery had created between them, while he himself felt completely unable to indulge in the same relaxed behaviour.

Standing on tiptoes, he tried to discern, what was going on.

In the complete darkness, he saw two schemes, one moving in the back, against the wall, on an errand that he was unable to see, while the other stood bended over a small canapé, long hair hanging to both sides of his face. Something about the posture was familiar, something about the scheme struck a cord, but it was much too dark to discern anything, and after a short exchange he had to admit, that Dorell was apparently as clueless was he was.

He was still trying to figure out what he knew about the long-haired person, when a sharp tug on his sleeve brought him to his knees. Dorell, thinking quick, leaned his back against the wall and pushed him to do the same, thus staying out of direct sight just below the window. Gillette's questioning look was answered with a sequence of gestures, from which he could read, that the second person in the room had been on his way to the window, and that complete silence was now in order.

He nodded a silent thanks and stayed motionless, hoping, praying, that these nightly visitors had nothing to do with the strange occurencies around Leonora Halvery, but Gillette was not naïve, and he knew the chances for this were very small.

* * *

"You're jumpy, luv", Jack Sparrow teased, grin flashing, and Anamaria snorted.

"Am I? Tia Dalma was jumpy about what we are to do, and if she's queasy, then I sure am, too." Anamaria had paced over to the window, looking out into the silent gardens. It was dark outside, and a soft breeze was moving between the trees and bushes of the garden. She could not see far, and apparently, nothing out of the ordinary was outside. "And there was something at the window, I am sure."

"Ghosts", Jack murmured, even though, on a closer look, this should not be a calming thought. "Don't worry, luv. We'll be out of here in no time, savvy?"

Ana stared out for some more moments, but nothing was moving and finally, she turned back towards the captain.

"He's sung yet?"

Jack grinned, golden teeth blinking.

"Like a sparrow. Ah, the motivating influence of a pistol at the neck…" He seemed to be very pleased with himself. "Her room is the second to the right on the left corridor. She usually is alone, she is often up late at night, and her mother is sleeping in a room right next to it. I have to admit, that last part's a bit of a bad news."

"We gotta be quick, then."

Anamaria drew closer to Jack and took a look at the servant that was lying on the couch, hands tied behind his back, a cloth effectively sealing his mouth. Panic was flashing in his eyes, but Anamaria did not feel any pity. He would survive the night with nothing but a major fright, and that was, at least in her opinion, nothing to complain about.

Jack looked up to her.

"You look dashing", he complimented, and Anamaria replied with a forced grin.

"And you look dead", she retorted coolly. Jack chuckled and replaced his revolver in his belt.

"It's nothing personal", he informed the servant with a cordial smile before finally turning towards his complice. "What's keeping you?"

Anamaria sighed and straightened her servants' uniform. She felt utterly out of place. As a very small child, before the death of her mother, she had known a slave's life in a mansion much like this one, and she had hoped never to return to it, and if only for a short period of time.

"I don't like it", she confessed, and regretted it immediately. Jack was no person to reward honesty, and she did not feel like being sneered at. Yet he surprised her again, standing close to her and giving her an almost friendly shove. "I can imagine, but since you got no better idea… It's not for long, savvy?"

She sighed.

The worst thing about it – Jack was right. And she did not like unfinished stories.

* * *

Leonora Halvery paused to look at the letters before her, carefully placed the selected quill to the side to give the matter some thought. She made sure that her fingers were clean and unable to stain the paper in her hand, before she took the unfinished letter to read it again.

_My dearest father, _

_I do not know how to begin this letter, so I should maybe do it by saying that I am sorry. I know how my current disappearance must have seemed to you, but again, it was not my choice, whatever you may believe. I would love to tell you all of it, but I know, that those, that took me from you will read this letter before handing it to you, and they will not agree._

_I cannot, for obvious reasons, tell you where I am now, but even though I am a captive at the moment, they treat me well, for now. I will need your help, though, if I am to be free._

_I do not know, if you remember the seamstress Susannah Delanney, who is said to have disappeared during the recent pirate attack. Apparently, she is still alive. She is in league with the pirates of the Black Pearl and has been seen in Tortuga. The people that held me captive, have, apparently, been betrayed by her at some point. In return for my freedom, they ask for Susannah Delanney's head. I hate to…._

Leonora frowned. How to realistically convey Elizabeth Swann's regret, her revulsion at the deed to be done? How to convince her father of the gravity of the situation, how to convince him to do as he should without falling out of the character of headstrong, independend Elizabeth?

Leonora frowned thoughtfully, her mind completely bent on the challenge. There was nothing else left in her conscience, not the nagging questions that came, at times, when her mother was distracted or disquieted, not the annoying feeling of worry that gripped her at times, when she seemed to remember things that she had dreamt… or seen… a house at a market in a grey city, bodies on the floor, houses and rain passing by as she ran…

She always had loved challenges, and she would have fled to them from reality, even if she had had a choice.

She had not, of course.

And as salvation drew nearer, Leonora Halvery replaced the quill on the parchment and continued to write.

Her mother dreamt dreams of fire

* * *

"A servant", Gillette stated, as he watched the two figures leave the room. "But who is that other one? I know him… from somewhere…"

"Someone who ought to be here?" Dorell inquired, practical sense in order. Gillette took some time to ponder this, but finally he shook his head.

"I do not think so."

"Then there is more going on than we thought", the soldier concluded, with raised eyebrows and a worried expression on his face. Gillette agreed.

"Still. I think it's time to move in." Heart pounding, he crept closer to one of the windows to the room. "At least, now we know, that there is no one in here."

Gillette raised his hands to the rim of the window. It was, of course, still scandalous and indiscussable what he was contemplating, but the decision had long come, and now he was determined to finish the path.

Some things that one learned in the days of youth were never forgotten.

And Andrew Gillette had had a reputation of being quite a scoundrel.

* * *

The window opened with a soft knack, as had Elanor's, in these rushful, early days before their marriage had been agreed, but unlike her room, there was no one to expect them in the governor's house.

Or so they thought.

Gillette entered the room first, Dorell following shortly after. The younger man closed the window with care, another small sound made the Lieutenant flinch. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, and for a moment he thought that it must be like a roll of thunder to those around him, calling out every servant and ghost of the house, but of course, this was an illusion, and all was quiet still.

The whimper was so soft that he would have almost missed it. But as it was repeated, a second, then a third time, Gillette whirled around to the source of the sound, and froze at the sight.

In the dim light, he could see a scheme lying on the couch, struggling wildly to get free. His hands apparently were bound behind his back, and a cord that looked as if it had been taken from the curtains in this room was tied around his legs.

Gillette crept closer and found himself faced by a young servant of the Swann household, bereft of his uniform, staring wide-eyedly out of a dark face, the white of his eyes almost ridiculously clear in the dark.

Gillette, without hesitation, lit a candle. He illuminated his own face, placing a finger over his lips to signalize the servant to be silent, before he motioned to Dorell to relieve the prisoner of the cloth in his mouth.

A moment of tension came and passed, when Gillette was not altogether sure whether the prisoner would scream, but the young black man was clever enough not to do so. Instead he watched his rescuers with wide eyes.

„Did you know the person who did this to you?"  
The servant considered, then nodded.

„One of them."

The question was inevitable.

„Who was it?"

„Jack Sparrow."

Gillette momentarily closed his eyes. Sparrow. Of course. The familiar scheme in the dark. Yet, this was where familiarity ended, because it was quite beyound him, how the without any doubt resourceful captain of the Black Pearl should fit into the mystery of the Halverys. It was, at any case, a disquieting thought.

„What did he do?"

Humiliation stood in the eyes of the servant.

„They rang the bell." A hand weakly motioned to the bellstring in the corner of the room, that would allow the Governor to give notice to the kitchen, that something was needed. „It was my turn", the servant continued, shrugging. „And so I went. When I saw him and wanted to scream, there was someone coming from behind. A woman. She took my clothes, then..."

Gillette pondered this, puzzledly.

„Do you know where they are headed?"

The servant nodded, worry in his eyes.

„They are off to the chamber of the little miss."

„Elizabeth."

„No. Leonora of course."

Gillette swallowed, but otherwise remained quiet on the outside.

„Very well. Now listen to me. I am sure you can clearly see things are afoot here, but I assure you, that for the moment, everything is under control." It was, in fact, very far from this, but Gillette tried to resort to the natural authority of his currently lacking captains' uniform and therefore tried to sound calming. „So please, stay calm. I can understand this is uncomfortable for you, but I would ask you to remain where you are, for the moment. We will, of course, release you, but please, for now, stay in here until we say otherwise."

The man nodded, while Dorell was already cutting his bindings. Gillette released a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

There was not much time to ponder the new findings.Time was short and there was no telling, what Jack Sparrow was up to.

* * *

Standing in front of the door to what was supposed to be Leonora Halvery's room, Anamaria was not quite sure about what to expect of the next few minutes.She felt utterly ridiculous and incomfortable in her servant's uniform, but she had to admit, that Jack's idea made quite a lot of sense. If they entered the wrong room, this uniform could maybe buy them enough time. At night, with a person half asleep, one might maybe take her for the infortunate person that had answered to their call.

Light was spilling under the door, telling that the inhabitant was still awake. Anamaria winced, yet she opened the door and entered the room.

A young woman was sitting at a table by the window, bent intently on whatever it was, that she was doing. A set of candles bathed the room in a warm light, that reflected very becomingly off the blue dress that Leonora was wearing.

Jack squinted his eyes and gave her a very appreciating look.

She was tall, slender, with a rich set of black curls falling into eyes that were dark with concentration. Her skin was of a warm, brown tone, yet not tanned, and spoke of few hours in the sun and many, shielded by parasols and buildings. Her even features might have been called pretty, a face with sharp, yet becoming angles and large, dark eyes with long lashes. She looked, to the two unusual visitors, like a very pretty, tender lady, high up in society, a rare, beautiful bird.

After which he was very sure, that Leonora Halvery was anything, but no delicate lady. For the items, that were standing on the table, were the constituents of a very professional forgery workshop.

And if this in itself were not odd enough. Leonora Halvery, sitting amidst all of these items and showing through her actions that she was quite proficient in their use, did not take any notice of the visitors. She raised her quill from the parchment, eyeing her work carefully, lips pursed, thoughtful.

Jack followed the dancing of the candleflames over her skin, feeling strangely as if he were hidden somewhere, unaware, as she was of their presence.

Thoughtfully, she twirled a black lock around her index finger, and it was then, that Anamaria nudged Jack painfully into the side.

„You still there?" she whispered sharply, and Jack hurried to nod.

„Sure. No worry."

Still no reaction from Leonora.

„Leonora?"

Jack cocked his head and came closer.

Still, no glance, not even a blink.

She dipped her quill into the ink again.

Jack advanced towards her, placing himself next to the table, so that, when next lifting her gaze, she had no choice but to see him, in a pose of studied casual calm. Anamaria, standing in Leonora's back, was much more tense.

„Leonora." Jack did his best to apply a warm tone, like a cat after swallowing a pot full of milk, warm, alluring. „Leonora."

The tiniest of hesitations.The quill, freezing close to the paper. But then, she continued to write.

Jack rolled his eyes, annoyed. On the one hand, her distracted behavior was quite prone to make him nervous, on the other hand he knew, that their time – and luck – was quite stretched. It was time for action.

„Leonora." A third uttering of her name, this time in unison with a dirty hand on her arm, grease staining the blue of her sleeve.

She frowned.

And then, slowly, softly, she raised her head to look at Jack.

Had he been forced to describe the expressions wandering through the eyes of Leonora Halvery, he would, maybe, have been unable to do so. At first, there was confusion, a frown appearing on her tanned forehead. Then, for a moment, the briefest of instants, there was somethign close to fear, panic, desperation maybe, and then, a glitter in her eye that he recognized too late.

At the top of her lungs, Leonora Halvery began to scream.

And only a second later, all hell broke loose.

* * *

The scream was breathtaking, and Gillette, who had tried to mount the stairs silently, abandoned all pretense at stealth. He galvanized into action, running upstairs, closely followed by Dorrell, to stare at the scene before him.

The door to Leonora Halvery's room flew open, revealing three people, two of which semed to be leaving the room of their own accord, while the third – Leonora – was wriggling in their grasp and screaming as if her very life were in jeapardy. But then, Gillette realized, only fragments of a second later, maybe it was.

He recognized Sparrow immediately, but he did not know the dark skinned woman at his side, but there was no time for reflection. One of the subjects of Port Royal was, once more, endangered by pirates, and all of his reflexes commanded action.

He grasped for the dagger in his boot, before he was even aware of it and saw Dorrell next to him do the same. Sparrow and the foreign woman, grabbing Leonora between them to force her towards the exit of the house, had not even recognized them yet. For a moment, Gillette was offered an open view on the pirate's face, and he saw something there, that he had not seen in him before.

Captain Jack Sparrow, invincible Captain Jack Sparrow, was deadly afraid.

The captain saw him and froze, eyes wide, but before he was able to react, a chilly breeze whispered through the corridor and the temperature dropped. Significantly.

„She's coming..." Leonora Halvery whispered, her voice filled in equal measures with dread and glee. „Oh my god... she's coming" She threw back her head and laughed, but the laugh echoed away and finished in a sob, a heartrendering sound full of despair, as she tried to curl up herself on the floor, and only the firm grip of her captors hindered her.

It was then, that Gillette understood, that in this situation, Captain Jack Sparrow was not his enemy.

Jack, realizing this, seized his opportunity and ran. He brushed past the surprised navyman, but before Gillette was even able to react, the door next to the one, that Leonora Halvery was in, flew open, revealing a picture of terror.

Gilette had seen Crystabella Halvery before, but the woman standing before him had nothing to do with the cordial, open person that he had met. He could not even tell what it was, for she moved quite calmly, and there were no outward changes. But she radiated dread.

„Bring her back."

It was a command of the sharpest nature, and Gillette, had he been the one holding Crystabella's daughter in custody, was not sure whether he had been able to resist it. But Sparrow, even though he hesitated for a moment, did not give in. Stumbling, he made for the exit, and Crystabella, taking one calm step after the other, nonetheless seemed to advance to him. Gillette felt himself reminded of a nightmare, of running and no possible escape. Transfixed, he stood and watched the scene.

„Get them for me..." So sweet a voice, so overpowering. Like a song of a mother, a sound speaking to the most primal of instincts, deep within him. „Bring them to me..."

And all of a sudden, Andrew Gillette understood the nature of Governor Swann's strange behavior.

But he had been warned, had been distrusting, where Swann was open. Like moving through thick air, he turned towards Dorell, who, mesmerized, made his way towards the door. Gillette reacted, his foot hindering Dorell's way, making him trip, before he turned back towards the nightmare on the top of the stairs.

„Run, Sparrow"; he screamed, at the top of his lungs, his voice mixing with Leonora's scream of terror, as the cold eyes of Crystabella Halvery turned towards the officer. He frooze, dagger still in his hand.

„Puny, tiny, worthless..." Words like the hiss of a snake, seething with rage. „Puny, tiny, worthless... dead." She lurched forward and Gillette screamed, as he realized, that this was a battle, that even the strongest heart could not win.

He had precious little time to prepare himself to die.

* * *

The spanish girl was not helping at all. She was tossing and turning, wriggling, and Sparrow had to force her forward much stronger than he would have preferred, had it not been for the fact, that he knew that hell itself was on his heels. The guards on the entrance of the residence had stormed into the hall, but in the jumble of a household awakning in panic, screams of terror coming from the upper story, and the icy cold wind that was, by now, tearing at everythig it could reach, they were easy to dodge, even with Leonora about. Jack Sparrow sent a silent prayer to the sky for the soul of the navyman. He had been courageous, so much was clear. Courageous and silly, a combination, that usually was attributed to Sparrow as well. He did not know him, but for an instance, he felt a flash of guilt at leaving him to his fate, but even if he had been a persn to return for someone without being forced to, he was sure that the fight against Crystabella was something that he was unable to win.

So he continued to run, towards the hills.

The jungle swallowed them, finally. Jack would have much preferred not to have such a long way to his ship, but there had been no other choice. Leonora's screams had been reduced to a whimper, and she was easier to drag along, once there was some space between her and what remained of her mother. In the jungle, their followers were quite likely to loose their trace, and Jack was counting on it, even though there was no time to rest.

Anamaria, at his side, ran together with him, never looking back. In her eyes, there was a haggard look, that Jack hoped, did not show in his own eyes.

And Leonora, stumbling along between them, was so long beyound caring, that Jack was not sure, that even the arts of Tia Dalma could bring her back.

As he reached the Pearl more than an hour later, a first streak of green was showing on the eastern horizon.


	45. As if I were wandring in a valley

**Chapter 44**

**As if I were wandering in a valley so dark…**

He dreamed.

He was standing aboard a ship, the waves crashing against it with full might, rolling the vessel from one side to the other. He was shouting orders without knowing which, but the water washed over the deck mercilessly and he fell, fell into the abyss.

Below the water, light was streaming with the tide. He opened his eyes and recognized a scheme floating in the light, as if it were caressing her hands, her face, her long curls. Like a being of its own, her dress clung to her, dancing around her small frame like a ghost.

She looked dead, and a surge of panic seized him, gripping his heart, his lungs, but then, with an almost offhanded, distracted gesture, she moved her legs, a single swimming movement, not unlike a children's game. She opened her eyes and stared up into the light, and once more, her face betrayed nothing of what she was thinking and feeling.

A harsh puff into his side tore him out of his dream, tearing him back into reality, a reality of screams and sounds, bad odors and flickering light.

He felt, as if he had fallen into the deepest pit of hell.

Another puff drove the air out of his lungs and he gasped, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening around him.

Laughing and cheering…

Someone grabbed him by the arm, the other arm was seized by another, and he felt himself moving, being dragged, his feet gliding over the floor but not feeling it. He tasted bile and desperately tried not to humiliate himself in front of whomever it was, that was enjoying this current entertainment and tried, through the haze of too much rum, to understand what was going on.

Cold.

Hard floor.

Water.

On all fours, he tried to regain his equilibrium, tried to ignore the laughter, to fend off humiliation, all at once, in a big jumble of pain and panic, but when there are many deeds to be undertaken at once, none succeeds, and, disgusted, at himself, the world and his surroundings, he felt his stomach revolt, and retched, retched, cleaned his system of the alcohol he had imbibed earlier, his whole body cramping painfully.

There was no room for thoughts, only for pain, and he crawled away from the laughter and the light, more beast than man, more instinct than thought in his reactions, and in a dim part of his mind, he realized, that even in this state, he was unable to forget.

* * *

The morning greeted him with pain.

Light forced its way through his closed eyelids, inflicting a pounding headache. He only dimly remembered the last night's events, but he still felt the remnants of it on his tongue, in his hair.

But it was not only because of this, that he despised this morning. Just like every time, when his body had managed to get rid of the wonderful haze of rum, and reality set in, he was reminded again with full force of who he had become, and how deep he had fallen.

A soft whimper of pain passed his lips, the only sound he had ever allowed himself to escape, to tell of the storm raging inside him, and then, with infinite effort, he opened his eyes against the day.

He had collapsed in a dead end alley, between empty barrels and piles of filth, a very small hole of a street, where the light hardly passed the buildings flanking it. Outside, Tortuga life had begun already, meaning that noon must be long past, and he saw people passing by without giving him so much as a second glance, no interest for, as he had heard so long ago, one more for the gutter.

He swallowed hard as the bustle outside reminded him of morning Port Royal, the city he had defended and loved, a home of sorts, despite all, a peaceful place.

Carefully, he tried to sit up, as the revelation hit him painfully.

He was not alone.

She was sitting on the opposite side of the alley, maybe six feet away from him, completely motionless, hardly even breathing, like a statue of marble and straw, a ghost of a dream, good and bad, escaping through the real world and, feeling lost in it, trying to be forgotten.

She was in her Lucilla's disguise again, the long, rich black curls falling down to her hips, some wound in small braids, some decorated with shells, a hat sitting atop her head and shielding her face.

She wore a long, simple skirt that she had wound around her legs as she was sitting, in a posture of ease and comfortable calm, one leg propped up, hands clasped around the knee, the other lying on the floor, a strangely childish, young position that would, to his mind, not fit to the image of Susannah Delanney.

The diffuse light in the alley revealed the many tiny freckles on her pale face, and on the bare lower part of her arms, between her shirt and the inevitable gloves, while she watched him, expressionless, with a soft, curious expression in her dark eyes.

There was no telling how long she had been here.

For an instant, the sheer surrealism of the situation left him to wonder, whether she was truly there or just a product of his recently stretched imagination. He had, during the last days, sometimes wondered, whether he was truly loosing his mind.

"What happened to Susannah Delanney?" he asked, the one and only question he had been turning around in his mind since he had met with her in Tortuga, trying to ignore the fact, that he was dirty and sore, and that he, given the choice, would have preferred to either curl up and hide somewhere or restart his relationship with a bottle of rum. His hands were shaking.

She ignored it, ignored the sorry state he was in, if not for the calm, yet somewhat annoying look she gave him, and that did not waver even now, after words had shattered the fragile peace between them.

Then she smiled. Softly, sadly, not a radiant smile to sweep all worries away but a smile full of meanings, full of words never to be said, full of tears never to be cried.

"What happened to James Norrington?" she retorted.

He closed his eyes in shame. She was right. Who was he to judge?

He felt an intensive longing to go away and hide, to escape from her gaze that burned over his skin like fire, but something kept him there, where he was. Maybe it was that same gaze.

"What do you want?" he asked, trying to sound sharp and failing, since the words came out in more of a sigh, betraying annoyance – and tiredness.

"An answer", she replied.

He felt his insides contract in a painful manner. He was by no means willing to give that answer.

"Look somewhere else for it", he sneered, sharper than he had intended to. She frowned momentarily.

"I have", she said, openly, still sadly. "I failed."

He managed an attempt at irony. Had he been forced to say why he was snapping at her, he would have been unable to reply. Maybe it was the annoying gaze she was giving him, a gaze that seemed to notice everything, from his dirty clothes to his bleary eyes, and he knew how little he lived up to the image of the Commodore that she knew. And maybe it was because for one half-dreaming, wild moment, he had been glad to see her and he could by no means fathom why.

"Oh, so you have already", he said, coldly. "I would prefer actually, Miss Delanney, if you would leave me out of your dealings, whatever they are. I am not sure I would like to mix in them."

He had wounded her, he realized, with surprise, and the blank expression in her eyes changed to something different, something very sad. She took one deep breath, as if to steady herself, and then she got up, suddenly, turning away from him to leave the alley, and as he watched her retreating back, something contracted in his chest, and he found it very hard to fend off the tears, that wanted to come for no reason that he could discern.

* * *

Susannah Delanney took the money, that her latest customer had left on the table she used as a working place and cleared away the remnants of the candles and the tiny shells, but her heart was not in it. She was glad that the questions of the young man had been easy ones, for she felt it hard to concentrate on anything since she had come back.

In the silence of her cottage, she sat down and stared sightlessly at the curtains around her and wondering, where she would go from her.

It had been a wild impulse, a notion she did not really understand, but that was supported by Tia Dalma in the way she supported the most strange of whims, and now she was here, without any knowledge of what was expected of her, or what she even wanted.

She had seen, beneath coldness and anger, the utter desperation the former Commodore of Port Royal was in, and it hurt her to see him this way, more than she could ever say.

But Susannah was afraid. To help him, to save him, would mean to leave the post of an observer, to take part, to… involve.

This thought alone gripped her with surprising panic.

Thoughtfully she looked at her hands, hidden by gloves, as she was always hiding, behind not so obvious things, usually, but hiding still. How to find a way out of her own maze…?

She understood, dimly, that this was why Tia Dalma had sent her here, but she was not sure whether she would have the courage to face it.

She had felt his pain as if it were her own. Susannah closed her eyes, hiding her face in her gloved hands, hiding her face from the sheer challenge of it. She had long since understood what Tia Dalma wanted of her. Long years ago, the witch had been the one to orchestrate the fight against the ghost of the twin islands, but now, Susannah knew, that this was supposed to be her task.

She was too scared to even think of it.

And yet she knew that he was important. As if she felt, that his fall, deep as it was, could tear her down in the abyss as well. They had both been, throughout their lives, very much alone, and they had both liked it well.

Susannah wondered if either of them truly knew the meaning of the word 'trust'.

But the story of the ghost was the story of James Norrington, as well as it was hers, as well as it was the one of Jack Sparrow. And even more than Norrington, even more than Tia Dalma, Susannah feared Crystabella Halvery. And this was what made her get up in the end.

* * *

James understood that he could not run from her.

Warmth was running down his throat and into his stomach with the rum, giving him the only form of content that he had known for some weeks, and yet, it did not chase away her face.

Alcohol was such a strange thing, he thought. He had drowned himself in it, trying to forget, trying to fend away the faces of the ones he had lost, only to realize, that this effect wore off, all too soon, and that the pain came back with company in the morning.

But there was a stage… somewhere down the third tankard of rum… where he saw things more clearly, than he had any right to, considering the circumstances, and in one of these moments he realized, that Susannah Delanney, for whatever reason, was haunting him. Her strange part in this strange story was bothering him, and even though he was not sure whether she was conscious about this, he realized, that maybe the one thing he still cared about was an answer to the questions that had crossed his mind concerning her, and that this thing was the only thing of substance in the endless sea of seemingly never passing days. The question of her alliance with Sparrow. The question as to why Susannah had known about the strange fate, the question, where the ring of his father had come from.

His father…

The thought stung more than he could bear. How would proud Commodore Norrington senior react, had he known what had become of his son? How he had abandoned all promises for the sake of a bitter revenge, only to fall down into a hellish abyss that he felt he would never emerge from again?

He winced, gazing into the rum in his tankard.

The Caribbean, he decided, made a devil out of everybody.

Him not in the least.

The moment of clarity fled, and there was nothing but a dull bitterness remaining, as he understood, that in this world, for the likes of him, there was no room any more.

* * *

During her first weeks in Tortuga, Susannah had been utterly scared of the taverns, where the drunkards were playing rough games, and where the air was thickened with the stench of rum and everything that came with it. Her fear had waned during the last days since her return, even though she could not place the reason for this.

It was a fact, that she had begun to be known here, and to be known and appreciated was the best way of not being hurt. She was, apparently, not easy to discern, and superstitious sailors hated to put up against someone, whose powers were at the least, dubious.

He was there, sitting in a corner and staring into his rum, wearing the same stained, old cloak and the same air of complete misery around him.

Susannah was not fooled. She had heard that he had, more than once, picked a fight over nothing, releasing an enormous anger and she had been told, that he had cursed her, in his delirium, over and over again.

Partly, she felt guilty.

She closed in on him, heart pounding loudly in her ears, hoping, that her fear did not show in her face. When was it, that she had approached someone of her own accord? She could not remember.

He did not see her, lost to his own thoughts, and she sat on the other side of the table, unbidden, her breath flat and hasty, her gloved hands trembling, so that she pressed them together tightly to hide their fear.

"Commodore", she said, softly.

"Commodore."

A word of another time, of another place. Of another man. The pain was overwhelming.

His head flew up, and he gazed at the intruder, at the utter atrocity of this word spoken aloud amidst his misery.

Gazing into the mocking face of Susannah.

"How dare you…" he whispered, getting up unsteadily, but no less threatening. "How dare you call me that? You, who…" He was not even speaking loud, but with intensity, that shook him to the core. "You, who have known, what would happen. You, who are in league with Sparrow, Sparrow of all of the filthy pirates!" His words like the lashings of a whip made her flinch. "How dare you mock me?"

He could see the layers falling behind her eyes. Indifference made way for hurt, being chased away by fear. Her gaze was wavering, and she was trembling, much like back in Port Royal, in the house of the governor, but unlike then, just before the breaking point, there was steel. She stood, trembling, but she stood.

"My decisions were my own, Commodore", she said, voice trembling. "And so were yours."

"Scum!" he hissed, seething with rage. "Get out of my sight, before I forget myself." He was swaying slightly, but his hand almost reached for the weapon at his side, the knuckles of the clenched fist of his left almost white.

But Susannah raised her head, deathly pale, but standing.

"I can go", she admitted, her voice growing not louder, but stronger. "But I can not leave. And neither can you, even though we would both want to."

The honesty was like a dagger in her side, but she took the pain with grace, swallowing hard, and then turning around, she made for the door.

"Go", Norrington said, voice trembling with rage. "Stop to haunt me." Each of his words were louder, and he was attracting attention, slowly, but definitively. "Go away, before I…"

Rage took over, as she left the tavern, her steps calm, almost casual, the same, deadly calm that he knew already to be a characteristic of hers, and he lurched forward, storming after her, only to be stopped by an errand punch in the stomach, that made him topple over and lose his target out of his sight. He drew is sword, holding it out before him to defend himself, but the mood in the tavern had toppled against him.

Norrington was a superior swordsman. But things were going rapidly downwards from then.

* * *

"What happened to him?"

A voice, familiar, amidst a sea of pain.

"Dunno, really. He picked a fight."

Annoyance, tingled with a bit of a bad conscience.

"He looks awful."

"Tough luck. That ain't no carnival here, you watch your step or you end up like him."

A soft, sad sigh.

"True enough. Come over. You have to help me."

A silence, of some time. And then, he felt himself being seized by the arms. Pain exploded like hot gold behind his eyes and darkness engulfed him once more.

* * *

In that night, he dreamed of the Dauntless, of the waves crashing over her, and as he looked around, his crew was no longer among the living, but ghosts, like the doomed crew of Barbossa's Black Pearl, cornering him, closing in around him, and he finally decided, that it might not be so bad to die. But a wind was caressing his forehead, softly, chasing away the ghosts for a moment, and he was allowed to breathe, simply to breathe, as if he had not been able to do so for years, and when he fell back into his dreams, he dreamed of rolling hills of green under a grey sky, but the rain was soft on his face and washed the memories away.

* * *

He opened his eyes to find himself being watched once more. He was lying in a bed, a simple blanket covering him, and while breathing was quite a pain, his bruises from the night before hurt like bruises healing, as if somebody had taken care of them while he slept.

Susannah sat in a chair some feet away looking tired.

For an instant, he felt a flaring of the old rage, but he was to tired to lash out on her, and even though he had seen her scared and sad, this was the first time, that to him, she seemed vulnerable. She had her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms curled around them, and she was watching him out of tired, dark eyes. Somehow the notion, that his actions, that this story did not glide off of her traceless made him feel comforted.

He was deadly thirsty and longed for a sip of rum, but he would not humiliate himself far enough to ask her for it.

He meant to ask something different.

"Why are you doing all of this?"

His voice was rough and speaking was painful, yet, she startled, as if she had been lost to her own thoughts and not realized his awakening. She got up, tucking back her hair in a strange, young gesture, as she turned towards a table, where a bucket of water stood.

She brought it to him, and it took his entire self-restrained, not to lurch forward to get it greedily, but to take it with good grace, carefully sipping.

The liquid running down his throat was Elysium, but it did not settle his stomach.

"Because…"

Susannah's voice was rough, and it trailed off into nothing as she realized, that she was not quite sure what to say. She could name some reasons of course, but she was unwilling to reveal any of them to the man before her, whose face, at the sight of her unsteady gaze, broke into a bitter smile.

"I see. No answers from you, like always."

With difficulty he turned around, trying to soothe his revolting stomach.

Susannah, in his back, moved but he did not care.

"No…", she said, softly, maybe even frightened. "No, no, no. I…" In a rush, without thinking, she drew closer to him, stopping short of the bed, a calming hand raised, as she quickly thought of something to say. "I will give answers", she said, knowing very well how weak it sounded to her own ears. "I will give answers, just not… to this one… now."

Slowly, carefully, James Norrington turned, trying to discipline his revolting stomach, to see the face belonging to these words, and Susannah had averted her eyes, her gloved fingers playing along each other. A tender red had crept onto her cheeks for just an instant, wiping away the pale white, but it was gone all too soon, and James was, once more, left to wonder.

Her black curls were shielding her face from him, and there was tension in her shoulders. She was, he realized, with infinite surprise, scared indeed.

A strange feat for a woman, who had braved the perils of Tortuga, sailed with Captain Jack Sparrow's crew, who had stood, calmly in the middle of the storm that had cost him ship and crew… It occurred to him, now, of all times, as his rage was waning, as the influence of alcohol in his blood was receding, leaving him sore, and trembling, that she had done many strange things, and many of them connected with him.

There had come harm of it, but all of a sudden, he was not sure, whether this had been truly her intention.

"Who are you…?", he asked, sounding less harsh, his own demeanor softened by Susannah's insecurity and by his own wonderings. "Who are you truly?"

She raised her head to look at him, and now he could be sure that she was scared, her wide, dark eyes shot him a fleeting glance, before they strayed to the side, watching the curtains around them. Her voice was barely audible.

"I wish I knew…" She passed a weary hand before her eyes and swallowed hard. "I wish I…" She shook her head and got up, not meeting his eye. "I will… just a moment…"

She turned around and left, not even hasty, but James recognized a flight when he saw one. Puzzled he watched her go, waiting for a door to clap, but none was to be heard. Yet, even as he waited, as exhaustion began to grip him once more, she never came back.

* * *

When he woke next, it was in the middle of the night, the curtains around him like looming shadows in the darkness. He remembered instantly where he was, a remnant of old soldier's reflexes, together with the fact, that, after weeks of almost constant drinking, his last sip of rum now had been a day ago. He was sober and he was not sure, whether he liked it.

The ache in his stomach had settled, however, and he felt fit to stand up and take a look at his surroundings.

He was not sure, what it was, that had torn him out of his lethargy, but maybe, the reason was to be found in the fact, that for the first time since this whole thing began, he had a lead, something to do, and if it were only in the strange behavior of Susannah Delanney, who, despite her promise, had not returned.

He got up, standing on unsteady feet for a moment, willing his mind to be clear again as the world swam around it.

His last drink of rum was too long ago – and yet not long enough.

Willing his hands not to tremble by clenching them into fists, he made to explore his surroundings.

Wind was moving the curtains around him, an open window bringing fresh air inside. Like ghosts, the pieces of cloth danced along their way, tenderly touching the bare skin of his hands.

He listened to them flapping, to the wind howling, to the sounds of the merrymakers far away – had she heard him, he wondered, in nights like these? – And below all this, there was someone breathing, heavily, an occasional whisper in between.

He froze.

A single person, he discerned, soon after, and his heart, having stopped for a moment, began to beat rapidly again. Treading softly, he followed the sounds, blind through the flashing curtains, yet sure of his way.

He saw a scheme lying on the floor, outlined softly by the moonlight shining its way through the curtains, a scheme lying amidst pillows and pieces of cloth, on the floor, tossing and turning in uneasy sleep.

He took two curtains, winding them into a knot, to allow moonlight to stream into the scene, and the ghostly light kissed Susannah Delanney's features, just as she whimpered again, her features contorted in pain, in fear.

Sweat stood on her brow, her head was tossing from one side to the other, the black curls tangled about her like another blanket of her own. Her fingers, lying on the pillows, clenched and unclenched, and it was a ridiculous time to wonder, where the tender gloves were gone, that he had seen her wearing so often.

She whispered, but he did not understand the words, none of them but the soft, intense 'no', that left her lips more than once, her voice trembling.

"Susannah…" Her name forced his way, before he could hinder it, suddenly, strangely moved by the scene, and frightened by this boldness, he continued, as if to make up for his rudeness. "Miss Delanney…"

But she did not hear him. Susannah was battling her own demons, and the fight she was lost in, was too deep for her to emerge.

James cowered next to her, lowering himself on his knees, torn between the shreds of what had been his sense of propriety – screaming at him that Susannah was in no condition to be seen by him – and the obvious fact, that she was in very much pain.

For a moment lost in time, he trembled.

And then, slowly, as if every inch were an eternity, he brought his hand towards her brow, were sweat was glistening in the pale moonlight.

"Miss Delanney…"

Her skin was cool and moist, and he held his breath at the touch, as if he would shy her away, or break her like a porcelain doll.

A frown appeared on her face, but the tossing receded, as if what he was doing had a soothing influence on her, and he let his hand glide down to her temple, drawn by moonlight and the scene, that was more than half a dream, and, worried as he was, he was caught completely unawares.

She lurched forward, like a beast attacking, her hand snapping his in a death grip. She was sitting, her face close enough to his that everything beside her eyes was a blur. Hot breath touched his face, as she stared at him, wildly, breathing heavily.

"He is on his way again", she whispered, the feeling of her bare hand on his painful for more than just the reason of her strong grip. "She has called upon the hunter and he is chasing once more. A storm is coming to swallow them whole, because the triangulum has broken, and there is no calling back, once the wild hunt has caught their scent…"

She gulped for air, her whole, slender figure trembling violently, and James Norrington felt unable to react, unable to move against the force of this assault, meeting the terror in her eyes with some of his own.

And then, she crumpled. Her whole posture sagged, her grip loosened, and then, realizing with new terror the situation she was in, she pushed herself back, once, twice, until she met the wall of the house, staring at him with tears in her eyes.

"I am not there to protect him… the hunter will come and take him, just as they took you…" She closed her eyes, a lone tear making her way down her cheeks, and she was breathing in ragged gasps, as if fighting an assault of misery with all of her might. "I can not protect them…", she repeated, despair in her voice, and she turned around to face the wall, her shoulders shaking in suppressed misery and fear.

Motionlessly, James Norrington stared at the scene, unable to react, shaken to the core. He saw Susannah trembling, her face hidden in her hands, and his finger still hurt from her vice grip, but the rift between them was miles wide, and even if he had known the way, he knew, that he would not find the courage to cross it.

Because he understood all to well.

"Neither could I", he said, softly, and looked aside, trying not to be torn between being the gentleman he had exercised himself to be and the danger of opening a pit, that he knew, he would never be able to escape again.

"Neither could I."


	46. Cornered

Lamminator: I have agonized about that part of Susannah/James-Interaction for ages, to be honest. I thought it would be really easy to write, I had been looking forward to it, but I was, unfortunately, very wrong. Glad you liked it, though :-)

Savvy: Nice to have you back! I wondered whether the lack of Sparrow in this story had chased you away - but in this chapter, there's a whole load of him :-)

Everyone, enjoy the show

All the best

Spirit

**  
**

**Chapter 45**

**Cornered**

_By the oath you swore_

_by the love you bear for king and country_

_heed the call. Do as you are commanded_

The natives of the islands around had called it the Grey Storm, for the weather that always came with it, gray clouds telling of its proximity when it passed the coast, too far off to be seen. It was a bad sign, a sign of evil things afoot, and when the Grey Storm was out, the fisher boats that had left for the sea were sure to never return.

They took it for granted, just as they did with the many strange occurrences that happened in the Caribbean, and so, while none of them knew, what the Grey Storm truly was, they stayed clear of it best that they could, and this was difficult, because there was no telling, when this particular evil would be out for prey again.

This time, they were lucky. The Grey Storm came at night, and by the time that the fishermen came out to ready their ships for the sea, they saw it, out on the ocean, raging in its own, very special fury, and they turned back to safe land again, for there was no telling, what was happening out there, and they sent a silent prayer to all of the souls, that were now lost on the open sea, fr the Grey Storm took no captives, and it spit out no one back again.

The Grey Storm stayed clear of her coast, but she knew, that it was there, anyway. Tia Dalma looked down at the shells cast before her and frowned, long fingers tracing the pattern.

She was worried. She knew of Sparrow's resourcefulness, but she also knew, that there were few things, that could withstand the Storm, once it was unleashed.

For an instance, she wished to have sent Susannah with Sparrow, for the girl had proven already, that she was able to give some measure of protection, but then it had not been the Black Pearl that the Storm had been after, and Tia Dalma doubted that the young seamstress would have been able to fend off a full assault.

The witch got up and paced to the window of her cottage, wondering, when it had been, back then, that things had gone so utterly and horribly wrong.

And how it had come to be, that her one time ally was out there doing her bidding, while she was standing here and fearing for their lives, for the Grey Storm was something, that not even the Black Pearl might be able to withstand.

* * *

The spanish girl was less than helping. Jack had thought her to be difficult on their flight out of Port Royal, but this was nothing compared to what he was experiencing now. One would think that being rescued from a terror like her mother was would result in some kind of gratitude, or at least calmness, but as far as Leonora was concerned, this was not the case. She had been apathetic, as they had reached the Black Pearl, and had, seemingly without any will of her own, been led towards the captain's cabin – for no one should say that Jack Sparrow treated his guests badly, especially if they were not his, but in fact Tia Dalma's guests – but this peace had not endured. 

Some time later, as the shores of Jamaica drew out of sight, she had started thrashing, banging her fists against the door, and then, since none of this had seemed to help, Gibbs had caught her on the verge of trying to climb out of the window of the captain's cabin to toss herself into the sea. She had, with surprising strength, tried to fend the old mate off, but Gibbs was a better sailor than this, and Leonora, for all her spirit, did not know as many dirty tricks as he did, and soon she found herself trapped, pinned beneath the sailor's full body weight, but she did not stop wriggling and fighting.

The noise attracted Jack Sparrow of course, who had stood at the helm, leisurely gazing out into the open see.

He watched the scenery placed before him and smirked.

"Care to tell me, what ye are doing?"

Gibbs froze, looking up at his captain, who leaned in the door frame, arms crossed, an amused expression on his face.

"Jack" he tried to defend himself. "She's tried to…"

He was unable to continue, for Leonora, having gained a bit of liberty since Gibbs' attention had shifted, brought up her knee and kicked him between the legs, ignoring his howl of pain, and, with a twist, wriggling out under him.

Jack Sparrow was torn between wincing at the mere imagination of the pain his first mate must be in and an appreciating eyebrow that was fighting to find its way.

He did not have much time to give in to his amusement, however, because Leonora Halvery was intent of making use of her newfound freedom and made a way towards the open door again. Jack, reacting quickly, grabbed for his pistol.

"Stop!" he commanded, threatening the spanish girl with a pistol, his body blocking her way to freedom.

"Take care, Jack", Gibbs, lying on the floor, coughed. "She's a real harpy!"

Jack grinned.

"I've seen that, for sure."

"Let me go." She had an intense voice, deep, resounding, warm, if not for the commanding tone that she was using at the moment, nonplussed by the pistol pointing directly in her face. "Let me go!"

Jack did his best to smile friendly. He was quite sure that unlike her mother, Leonora Halvery's powers lay mostly in being annoying and resourceful, while Crystabella was more on the creepy side, but he did not want to risk his precious passenger – if not for her own sake, then because coming back to Tia Dalma without Leonora would have been trouble for him indeed. "No."

Leonora glared at him. Her whole posture betrayed tension, her fists clenching and unclenching.

"She will not have this", she threatened, taking a careful step towards him, that made him jerk his pistol sharply in her direction.

"Stop, I said. And frankly, luv, I don't give a damn, what she will have or not."

"Indeed?" Leonora crossed her arms, angrily, her black eyes literally shooting sparks. "I wonder what you will say to this after she took your ship and all you've got including your life."

Jack sighed.

"Empty threats, luv", he said, pistol still raised. "In case you haven't noticed. I'm a pirate. No. Better still. I am a pirate captain. Captain Jack Sparrow, to be precise. And as such, I do not take orders. Not even from someone as pretty as you, savvy?"

Rage flared in Leonora's eyes, and for a moment, Jack Sparrow could not help grinning. In more than one way, she reminded him of Elizabeth.

"Who gave you the right to come and grab me just like that? This is an outrage! How can you?"

Jack's grin grew broader.

"Pirate, luv", he reminded her happily, gun still pointed. "I thought they had a reputation by now."

"I have not had the pleasure yet", she spat out the word 'pleasure' to turn its meaning into quite the opposite, "and frankly, I do not give a damn for it! All I know is, that you will not get away with it!"

"Ah, for the fury of a young lady like yourself…" Jack sighed wistfully and came closer, step by step, a smile on his face, yet he had not lowered the pistol. "However, I remind you, cordially, mind you, but sternly nonetheless, that on this vessel, which is my ship, there is only one person telling what is done, which is me, not you, and not any other spirited lady that might be around, whether dark skinned, or governor's daughter, and so…"

A strange flash in her eyes stopped his tirade, and she blinked, her aggressive posture relaxing for a moment, and she frowned.

"You know Elizabeth…?" she asked.

Jack, pistol still at ready, had reached her and now put his arm around her shoulders, a gesture, that might have seemed friendly, even brotherly, if not for the weapon in his hand, but Leonora hardly seemed to notice.

"Let's presume I do… what would that mean?"

She gripped his collar, thoroughly starting him, so that he would almost have pulled the trigger on that weapon of his, which was still pointing at her throat.

"Tell her, he's under her spell…", she said, hastily, her eyes flashing in something, that might have well been fear. "And that he cannot escape from her… and neither can I."

She flinched, but then she closed her eyes, her face contorting. "Run, Captain Jack Sparrow", she unknowingly repeated the words of a recently deceased lieutenant of the royal navy. "I do not know, what she sends. But it will be bad."

The moment of clarity had fled, and Jack, clueless as to what he could do to counter Leonora Halvery's strange moods, had locked her up in the brigg, where the possibilities of what harm she could do were infinitely smaller.

* * *

He stood at the bridge, gazing out to the open sea, where, on the horizon, bad weather was brewing. He was not sure yet, whether it would reach them, and decided not to take any action just yet. 

"We've seen that before, haven't we?" Anamaria had crept up to his side without him realizing it and gazed out into the same direction. Jack squinted his eyes.

"Have we?"

"That day Norrington caught up with us, remember?"

Jack thought for a moment. Then: "Oh… that day."

Anamaria nodded. "Aye."

"Maybe that's what she was talking about", Jack mused. "If it is, then it's a real shame we don't have your little friend with us. She came in handy when things got rough."

"Don't you realize, what this is?" The voice was rough, and Joshamee Gibbs stepped up with them, gazing out into the boiling gray at the horizon."

"That is the Grey Storm…"

Jack gazed at him, puzzled.

"The what? Wasn't that that thing that raged some twenty years ago and hasn't been since? Wasn't it that thing that everybody was afraid of, which was why Hale Harbor was so easy to raid?" He grinned, dwelling for a moment on a very particularly pleasant memory.

"Maybe it has come back", Gibbs opted. "Maybe it has reawakened, and is now haunting these waters again."

Jack looked at him, for a moment or two, swaying from side to side softly, frowning.

Then, he took out his spyglass, gazing at the horizon in wonderment. The pieces were slowly falling into place.

The gray storm, an evil haunting these waters, about twenty years ago, something close to a hurricane, a natural evil whose core was unknown to almost everybody. The gray storm was the reason why still many of the natives in these waters watched the horizon with fear and did not leave safe land once that there was a sight of boiling air on the horizon.

It had vanished, without trace, twenty years ago.

And then, he remembered Tia Dalma. When he, twelve years ago, young and foolish – more foolish – had arrived at the islands of Arraka and wandered around, stumbled upon a thing or other, in search for treasure, he had brought himself a lot of trouble.

He remembered little of the days that he had spent on that island, barely himself, trying to quench some raging storm inside him, and only when Tia Dalma had arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, he had been able to breathe, to think again.

She had not offered any explanation, nor had he, at that time, cared to ask for one, and so he only remembered standing in front of a stone wall – that very same stone wall he and his crew mates had attacked earlier in search for the fabulous treasure of Arraka – it was at that moment that he had pondered the whereabouts of these crew mates – and Tia Dalma had done a lot of things that he did not understand.

Not, that this had been all to surprising. He had, in all his dealings with her afterwards, never really understood what she was up to, but after whatever she had done, she had given him the Triangulum, with a very stern demand to take care of it with his life. He had done so, at least in a way, until it had been broken.

The time fit quite well.

Maybe, Jack thought, the Grey Storm was on the loose again. A very disquieting thought.

"Ah, Mister Gibbs?"

The old sailor turned towards him.

"Yes?"

"Just a hypothetical question, out of the blue, so to speak. Don't think anything of it."

Gibbs squinted his eyes, then nodded.

"Yes…?"

"Considering, if, for any hypothetical reason, that this was, indeed, the Grey Storm… what would that mean?"

"That depends", Gibbs replied, looking uneasily towards the clouds, that seemed to have drawn closer still, at a speed, that was unusual, even for the unpredictable Carribean weather. "They say, at times, that the Grey Storm is a hunter in itself. It is not just raging, but it is sent, on its hunt, to find someone, to follow someone's trail. To bring someone down."

"Ah", said Jack, and it did not seem extremely happy. "So, what kind of person would be likely to have that thing on his… ah… trail? I mean, just so that I know, plain interest, you see?"

"People say", Gibbs continued, "that the Grey Storm was obeying a command. But who gives that command… nobody knows. Maybe it is the devil itself… but you know, that people talk."

"Of course", Jack said, a little too quickly, waving his hand as if to dispel a bad odor. "Of course. But, just.. I was thinking. For the hypothetical reason, that this was the Grey Storm – which it isn't – and the even more hypothetical idea, that this Grey storm is hunting someone, and, the even more hypothetical idea, so hypothetical, that I can only hypothetically speculate that it ever has existed, that this storm was on the hunt for us, what would that mean?"

"It would mean", Gibbs rasped, "that we are doomed. But we aren't, are we?" He knew his captain well, and his grin was forced. Jack tried to avoid his gaze, but something in his eyes told Gibbs, that there was a lot less to hypothesis' than met the eye.

"Ah, doomed is a very ugly word. I myself", Jack replied with grand gesture, "pride myself in the thought, that there is no situation that does not, at least, allow some small chance of escape. I would hate to loose this idea, to be honest."

"We all would", Gibbs replied. "But if – as you say, hypothetically – someone were to be followed by the Grey Storm, I would know of three things to save him."

"Ah, this is easy", Jack replied. "The first is Tia Dalma. But we will never be there before this reaches us." He jerked his hand behind him towards the cloud. "The second is that girl that was with us last time we saw that storm, Lucilla. But same goes for her as for Tia, she's too far away."

"Land, right?" Anamaria turned to look at Jack, dark eyes worried, but straight. "I do not think that it can follow us there. Can it?"

"Mister Gibbs!" Jack turned towards his first mate with a grand gesture, spreading his arms. "You heard the lady. We have a bearing."

"Which is…?"

"Shore. Land. The next island that there is. Never mind if it is small. Let's do it like pirates always do, run, hide and wait until the storm is over."

* * *

Good as the plan was, it was not as easy as that. The maps showed a small island in reachable distance north of them, but as if the storm had taken on their scent, it drew nearer quickly, and soon the blue sky above them was replaced with black clouds, that told even the most incompetent sailor, that their time was running short. 

Jack had his crew set all the sails he had, before he turned towards the brigg to take a look at what Leonora was doing, just in time, that she had, somewhere from the depth of her elaborate dress, produced a small knife and was busy trying to force her way out of the prison. When he arrived, she stopped, looking at him with a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

"She is coming, right?"

"And we are going…" Jack replied, smiling broadly with a confidence, that he did not feel. Outside, the storm was howling, and the Pearl was swaying from side to side. "Make yourself at home, Miss Halvery, it seems, as if we are staying here for a very…" he took a step towards her, "… long", another step, until he was standing before her, "time", and with that, he snatched the knife out of her hand, turning back to the door and climbing up to hell once more.

"It is just ahead, look!" Anamaria had to scream to make herself understood, even though she was standing right next to Jack, who was clutching the helm that always threatened to slip through his fingers. They had, amidst the storm, not yet lost their movability, even though he had feared more often than not that they would do so. However, the Pearl was very much toy to the wind and to hold a course was becoming literally impossible. Jack tried to see what Anamaria was pointing to, and indeed, amidst the rain and the boiling water, there was a small island, promising something close to safety from this hell.

But an unfortunate wind drew the Pearl away from it.

"Jack!" A scream, hardly to be heard, but enough to attract his attention, and Jack Sparrow turned around to see the heart of the storm approaching.

He had, once before, seen the ship, blackened planks, gray sails, but only from afar, and protected by whatever Susannah Delanney had done then, but he had none of this protection at the moment. It was larger than the Black Pearl, and its shades in the darkness seemed to waver, as if it was obstructed by a surface of rippling water. Three masts, just like the Pearl, but above them was, proudly, flying the last sign that he would have expected considering the scenario. The heart of the Grey Storm was sailing under the flag of the British Empire.

And the island was seemingly gliding away.

* * *

"Load starboard gun ports", he called over the howling wind, and Gibbs, standing lower on deck, took up the call to give it down to the pirates hidden in the belly of the ship, while Jack, still clutching the helm with one hand, took out his spyglass to get a look at their opponent. 

They were, indeed, moving with the precision he knew – and hated – in the Royal Navy, but even though many of the crewmen could have well been of British origin, there were quite a few, who would have most definitely never been admitted to service there, skin tanned as Anamaria's was, wearing not an uniform, but simple clothes, their origin difficult to discern.

Surveying the whole, calm activity at the deck was a man standing at the helm, looking out towards the Black Pearl without so much as a hint of what he was thinking on his face. He wore the full uniform of a Commodore of the British Navy, but something about this uniform struck Jack as odd, as different to the one of a certain Commodore he knew, but he could not place the finger on it.

The man was in his thirties, his face lined, as if it had seen quite a lot of days at sea, and he had something familiar about him, even though Jack was quite sure to never have seen him before.

The ship lurched forward, in an all to familiar movement and the spyglass slided out of his hands, falling into the boiling waters.

Jack swore.

"Fire!" he yelled the command he should have given long before, and the guns began to speak again in a dance, that seemed familiar to Jack.

The storm was their adversary and it was friend to the foreign ship. Jack, resourceful as he was, had a bad feeling about the fight that they were fighting.

Another salve met the ship and wiped Jack off his feet, the ship rolling first backboard, then starboard, screams telling him that at least one of his crew mates had been washed overboard.

The storm was tearing at the sails.

They fired back, but Gibbs called up to Jack that the starboard side had taken a lot of damage, and with a flash of panic he remembered, that the brigg was located on that same starboard side, just above the water line – even though, of course, there was no such thing as a water line in the current storm. He waved Cotton, who was clinging to the sails above him, to the helm, and ran down, clambered down the ladder into the belly of the ship. Waves of water washed down, drenching every part of him, that had still been dry as of now, thoroughly, before he finally reached the brigg, where the prisoner was locked up.

He was not a moment too soon. A bullet had hit the part of the ship where the brigg was located, and some of the outer wall had splintered, leaving a small rift, from where a determined, wriggling motion of two pale legs told him, that Leonora Halvery was almost gone. In the water on the bottom of the brigg, her skirt was lying discarded, heavy folds thoroughly drenched, and dressed only in her underwear, she did her best to slip through the small opening, and she was succeeding.

Jack swore, whirling around in search for the key of the brigg, and by the time he had grabbed it from its anchoring point and opened the lock, Leonora Halvery had managed to escape through the opening into the boiling sea, and as he tried to watch where she had gone, a wave threw him back onto the floor.

But Jack Sparrow was not so easily defeated. It took him only a moment, before he decided to make after her, and only instances later, washed over by several other waves, he plunged headfirst into the waves.

* * *

She was no good at swimming. She had only made it a few feet away from the Black Pearl, when, despite her best intentions, her force had left her, and she did nothing but to try and not to drown, which was, as Jack thought, approaching, quite a bit of luck, since he was not quite sure that he would have been able to battle her, and the waves. 

"What the blazes is he doing?" Gibbs, despite everything he already knew about Captain Jack Sparrow, stared incredulously at his captain treading water, holding the unconcious form of Leonora Halvery above the water, just after knocking her out before she even realized he was there. "Maroo! A rope, the captain is…"

"Stop!"

Anamaria stepped up to him. "Look where he's going!"

Jack Sparrow had turned towards the island, hidden by the rolling waves, trying to hold Leonora above the water, but the ship was still attacking the Black Pearl, obviously oblivious to their already escaped goal.

"We have to divert him!" Anamaria cried over the howling winds. "Once Jack is safe and they realize he is not with us any more, they will maybe not pursue us."

"That is a hell of a crazy plan, lass", Gibbs said, but full of appreciation. "All right, everybody, up in the sails again, and down to the guns, and give'em a treat that they'll never forget!"

Jack had no time to realize, what was going on back on the Pearl. He was troubled enough holding Leonora over water and to advance towards the island, that seemed dreadfully far away in the storm. The spanish girl's head was lolling from side to side, sometimes over, sometimes under water, but that was all that Jack could do amidst the hell that these waters had become.

But he had always prided himself in being an exceptional swimmer.

* * *

"The front gun ports are flooded!" Maroo, close to panic, ran up to Gibbs. "What do we do now?" 

"We cannot hold out much longer!" Anamaria had taken the commanding post at the helm, but she knew very well that the Black Pearl was reaching the end of her luck. "Time for revelation!"

Gibbs nodded, turning around towards the crew, signaling for the sign to be sent, and Cotton's parrot flew up towards the mast, carrying a rope, where a discarded sail was attached.

Some of the crewmen ran to grab the other end of the rope, while Cotton's parrot dropped the rope on the other side of the mast for his master to catch. Together, they raised the sign, Gibbs calling the signals, and to the crew of the ship in the storm, a note was flapping in the wind, decorated by only a single, crude word.

"Island!"

The message was understood. The heart of the storm turned.

* * *

"You know what?" Completely out of breath, his arms and legs aching terribly, Jack reached shallow waters, as the ship with the gray sails turned towards the shores. "I have really tried to be nice to you. Really. I tried to rescue you, and I would have, at least, expected some kind of gratitude." 

Unconscious Leonora did not answer, but Jack did not expect an answer.

"I think it's that house. First Elizabeth, now you. There's nothing like a good rebellion, right? But I'm fed up. One more escapade coming from that head of yours, and that is your bullet, savvy?"

She was silent, but Jack, out of breath, did not rant any more. He was , after all, lucky to have gotten this far.

"Make ready the Empress, Mister Hastings", she said, softly, yet commanding. "I fear, I will have to leave Port Royal for the time being."

"Leave?" Governor Swann sounded disquieted, closing in on Crystabella, completely ignoring the navy officer standing at the door. "But…"

She turned towards him, her smile oh so friendly, oh so predatory.

"Do not worry, Weatherby. I will be back in no time, in no time at all…"


	47. and someone had lit a candle for me

**Chapter 47**

**… and someone had lit a candle for me**

She was breathing so very softly, almost inaudibly, that sometimes, during the endless minutes and hours, that they sat meters and miles apart against the wall of Susannah's small hut, he feared, in a flash of utter irrationality, that she had completely stopped to draw breath. But as he stole a glance at her, as she sat motionlessly, he saw her chest heaving softly, almost like in sleep.

This part of town was surprisingly calm. It seemed to him, that ever since he had arrived in this pirate town, he had spent all time in the whirl of sound, and screams, and laughter, a hellish cacophony orchestrating flickering lights, but here, all these noises were dimmed to just a little bit more than a memory, diminishing as if they were a bad dream receding.

The silence was louder than any scream could have been, and, after some time, it brought thoughts, involuntarily, and James Norrington, only shortly after, was not sure whether he would have wished the rumble back.

He was wretched. Abandoning all his standarts, his principles, betraying what he believed in, he had become what he despised, and thus, in a way, gotten what he deserved for his erring.Only, that there was no repayment for the loss of lives.

He clenched his fists, dirty nails drawing blood, but he savoured the pain, it seemed to be the smallest of punishments, and any thought, any thought beyound the flashes and screams of the fall of the Dauntless were like a trunk to a drowning man to him.

He tried to breathe evenly, and, as his gasp for air grew erratic for a moment, he could have sworn, that Susannah had, without moving her head so much as an inch, thrown a quick glance at him, but he was not sure. He did not dare to look at her, so utterly withdrawn she seemed, so far away, and he wondered, briefly, what it was, that pushed people away from him in this obvious manner.

Of course he knew very well. But it was a price readily payed, discipline for the sake of propriety, of carreer, and with the years, a mask had become habit, and for a moment, he tried to wonder, what now, covered in dust and grime, remained of the James Norrington of earlier days, and he was not sure that he could have found anything.

There was so sorrily little left of the old James Norrington.

The last months had been a row of griveous errors and missed opportunities. He had, during these days, often wondered what would have happened, had Elizabeth never fallen from the battlements, had she never...

He hesitated, lost in his train of thought, and wondered, when it was, that he had last thought of the daughter of the Governor of Port Royal. Everything was a blur in the alcohol haze, but he remembered, with a flash of utter, wild panic, that day when he had followed the red lanterns again, much like the first day, when he had arrived at Tortuga and everything had seemed so utterly lost then.

He had cried for Elizabeth when he, for the briefest of moments, lost his control, then, when suddenly there had been nothing to hold him back, any more. But that second time, only weeks ago, he had not even thought of her, and he dimly remembered confiding another name to the darkness, like a plea.

As if he had called and she had come.

He was quickly becoming delusional.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at the young seamstress. Her eyes were closed, but she was too tense to be asleep. She looked pale, almost white in the moonlight, her freckles almost invisible. She seemed too thin, her skin stretched over bone, haggard, tired, with dark rings under her eyes.

"Ask your questions."

He flinched at her sudden, although softly spoken words, that resounded barely above a whisper, but he did not dare to turn his head to look at her. He was, without knowing why, shocked at the defeat he recognized in her voice, as if she were a condemned knowing, that dawn would bring the execution day, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered, what scars she was hiding from in this miserable place.

Her words fled unanswered for a while, as James Norrington stared sightlessly before him, wondering if he had dreamt what she had said and finally coming to the conclusion, that it was of little substance. If her words had been a dream, then so be it, and her promise of answering him had been given long before.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, the only question that truly mattered, in this surrounding, in this situation. Her lips twitched, softly, but she did not open her eyes or turn her head. The rift between them was miles wide, and as she sat there, and he waited for his answer, she seemed to be dwindling, deminishing.

As if she were a leaf, and there were a storm afoot.

"I think, I might need your help."

Her voice was barely audible, and she still did not look at him, and in a moment's fury, he wondered at the nerve of this girl who was either a tradeswoman or a charlatan, but never someone to impose upon the Commodore of Port Royal of all people for such a request. But then he remembered what he had become, and that, in his current state, he would not be much of a help to anyone.

Thus, he laughed bitterly.

"You are betting on the wrong horse, Lucilla", he said, his voice close to a snarl, betraying his annoyance. "I am in no condition to help anyone, in case you haven't noticed."

She frowned, opened her eyes to stare emptily before her.

"Why?"

"Have you taken a look lately? It might well do if you did." His voice was cold, and for a brief moment, he felt guilty for pushing her away, but fury and pain were much too great. "Although I cannot say that I would care much for it. A disgraced officer. Not much of a sight to see." He laughed bitterly. "And frankly, I do not see any reason why I should help you when it was you who brought me in this in the first place." It was injust and he knew it, but he waited for some kind of reaction, some kind of steel, fury meeting fury, but Susannah Delanney was no Elizabeth Swann, and her powers were quite of a different kind.

"But you are still James Norrington", she said, more calmly than before, yet still avoiding his gaze, but there was something in her words alone that had his fury evaporate in a matter of seconds without him being able to tell how this had come to pass. He swallowed, hard.

"How can you say this?" This was more honest than he had intended, and certainly more honest than he deemed wise, and he felt his stomach clench at the mere thought of it, that Susannah Delanney should see his misery, not only in his appearance, but also in his words. Yet, for once, the seamstress seemed unruffled.

"Because you do not so easily cease to be what you are. Your skin is still yours. As mine is mine..."

Such an quiet conviction in her voice... he could let him be overpowered by it. He felt tired, and, if her posture was anything to tell, so did she. And yet, there was resignation in her voice, a defeat he had not noticed before, and suddenly began to wonder.

„Why are you here, Miss Delanney?" he asked, once more referring not to the charlatan, but to the seamstress that she, long ag, had been.

„Because I did not want to die", she said, quietly, softly, and he shook his head in disbelieve.

„This is not quite the place for such an intention, don't you think?" Sarkasm dripped from his words, and for a moment, something sparked deep within her black eyes.

„It is a place for those, who have nowhere else to go, isn't it?" she retorted, not without sting, but she did not turn around to tell from his face, that the arrow had struck home. Maybe, he wondered, she knew it even like that. „What should I have done?" she asked softly. „After I was taken from Port Royal... what was I to do? Tell me Commodore, would there have been a fleet looking for me?"

He swallowed, thinking for a moment. He remembered how close he had been to abandon young William Turner, blacksmith's apprentice William Turner, to certain death with the pirates of the Black Pearl. Had he known of Susannah's disappearance...

He could hear himself talking...

_'Her disappearance is regrettable, very much so, indeed, but you see, the defense of Port Royal has always been the issue most near to my heart and therefore...'_

His face contorted in a snarl that he did not control, in a disgust he did not know what it was directed at. He would have, in that hypothetical case, worried and regretted for a day or two. And then, he would have tried to forget.

While, all the time, Susannah had proven to be such an unforgettable person.

With a flash of intuition, he realized, that he would never, ever be able to forget her, now.

„I know", she said, softly. „This is the way of this world. These are the rules." She smiled, whistfully. „I am just a seamstress. Not much in the grand scheme of things." She managed to say it without sounding bitter, but Norrington felt, he should contradict her anyway, swallowing down the notion, that he should maybe not start down this dangerous line, not knowing where it would lead him.

„That is not true. You are not 'just' someone who is not worth looking for in such a case", he replied, with a conviction of which he did not know where it had come from. „You are...", and then, words deserted him. He was not sure whether he had planned on anything to say, but even if he had he now found himself utterly incapable of continuing. The abyss was yawning under his feet, and he shied away from it.

„A ghost..."

He raised his head, surprised at her sudden words, and as he turned aroudn to watch her, he found his eyes met by her dark ones, endless pits that betrayed nothing beyound an infinite sadness. „That is what I am..."

James frowned.

„What do you mean...?" he asked, insecure. Susannah closed her eyes, apparantly unable to bear honesty while meeting the gaze of his eyes, that had begun to show their green color in the beginning daylight.

„That I am insubstantial", she explained, softly. „I watch. I never... involve."

„That is hardly true", he replied with a sardonic smile. „I can remember one or two occasions, that I would hardly describe as watching, including the one that explains me being here."

„This is different", Susannah said, shaking her head in defeat. „Don't you see?"

„No, I do not see!" He was quickly losing patience with the evasive creature before him, unable to bear the tension between them any longer. „Why are you doing all this? Why are you...", he shook his head, but before he could continue to unleash his anger on her, she continued, with another sentence that made no sense at all.

„Because your father has sent you a present before he died", she said, and every word, forced out between her lips, told him of the strain, that it meant for her to utter these words. „Just like mine did, before both of them vanished, on the same mission."

He blinked, took a moment to digest this information.

„Your father served in the Navy under..."

She nodded, eyes still closed. Her lips were pressed together forming a thin line.

„What kind of present?" he asked, even though an annoying feeling at the back of his head told him that he should know, should really know, but she continued before he was able to remember.

„The last one. The very last one before the end."

Pieces fell into place as she opened her eyes again, and with a painful sting he remembered the words attached, and the words of another person, in a completely different setting, yet none the less mysterious.

„The charm...", he wondered, and she nodded, now turning fully so that she was sitting opposite of him. Dark curls framed her pale face, but she seemed less closed in this moment, the rift narrowing by whatever force, he could not tell.

„These tokens, yours and mine", Susannah explained, softly, without blinking, or ever relieving of his gaze. „... were keys to a prison of sorts. A prison, where something was hidden, that has not graced these seas for many years and that should have never been allowed to do so again. But when the Black Pearl raided Port Royal... my token was destroyed."

„Another myth..." He shook his head, sounding unconvinced. „I am no fool, I know very well that there are things in these waters, that are hard to explain, but I have never heard of..."

„The Grey Storm...?" she finished, in a question. She had wrapped her arms around herself, as if looking for protection and failing. James frowned, searching his memory.

„A weather phenomenom, twenty years ago", he replied, off-handedly. „A hurricane, maybe. We were not so familiar with the caribbean weather then. It appeared twenty years ago and never came back since."

„So you speak...", Susannah mused, sadly. „And yet it cost you your ship."

He shook his head vigorously.

„Sparrow", he insisted sharply, „cost me my ship. Him, and, in no small part, my own idiocity."He clenched his fists again, trembling against his own will. He tried to force down the images and failed miserably, Groves final cry resounding painfully in his ears.

„Maybe", Susannah agreed, softly. She had turned her gaze to her hands, watching the bare fingers as her thumb touched the nail of the index of the other hand, almost in an absent caress. „But then, give some part of the blame to me as well." She did not meet his surprised stare, but turned her gaze to the window, where the sky was beginning to paint itself in the pale blue that was the first greeting of the early morning. „Because I could not protect you. And it was not for lack of trying."

He blinked, surprisedly, since he had, of all the things she might have said, not expected anything in this direction. Her words were ridiculous of course. She was a seamstress, tradeswoman of Port Royal. Subject of the crown, and under his protection. Never, and under no circumstances, it was the other way round.

And yet he remembered her standing at the rail, shouting to the wind, as if it could really listen. He closed his eyes. It was too painful to recall the events of that particular day.

„This is ridiculous", he fled into old patterns, into pride and sneer, into hiding. A very old line of defense, this was, but it was still working. „You are, as you said for yourself, a seamstress. Not a sailor, and no military man. It should have been my duty to protect them, and in this I failed. That, Miss Delanney, is a fact, while everything else is speculation."

„I will not tell you of your duty", she replied, feeling on safer ground now, that he was so obviously off-foot. Susannah had, all of her life, been good at judging people, and right now, she felt the tremors running through the Commodore as if it were her own body that they were torturing. And yet, she felt safer not being the only one to be unsettled. „It is not in my place to." She raised her head to face him again, gathering her courage for what she had to say, because if he would not be able to accept the line she was about to draw, then their agreement was unfulfillable, as unspoken as it was still. „I would that you would grant me the same courtesy."

He pondered her words, torn between a bitter sneer – the line of defense again – and a curiosity that threatened to get the better of him. But there was something hanging in the air, unspoken, unseen, like a craftfully woven spell, like a hand outstretched in an offering, that was so elusive, that he could sense its presence, but not its purpose.

„So, while you know about what I consider my duty... as we spoke of courtesy..."

He placed his arm on one propped-up knee, watching Susannah intently. „Humor me. What do you consider your duty?"

Susannah took a deep breath before the plunge. She should have been glad. Considering his current situation, she was doing quite well. She had him, hook and needle, and what annoyed her most, was, that Tia Dalma had prophecied, that exactly this would happen. She wondered, if the few weeks that she had spent with the witch woman had already turned her into the same manipulative thing that Tia was.

Yet, for some reason, she felt unable to play at trickery, as far as Commodore Norrington was concerned. Not unlike her, he was tossed in the wind, by forces he could not fight, yet, and even though he might not like it, he was as intrinsic to this story as she was.

Both of them were victims. But Susannah had gone the next step along the way already. And – as pirates say – lord be damned, if she would not be able to take him along for this, to show him a way to leave the abyss that he was wallowing in.

If nothing else, she very much wanted to help him.

And so she plunged, finally.

„I consider it my duty", she began with effort, „to stop the evil that is currently raging these waters."

„Somehow I think you are not talking about pirates", Norrington added, full of sarcasm. „Another ghost story?"

Susannah frowned in annoyance.

„Of sorts...", she replied, her words betraying her sentiments. „But it is not a story told in three words."

He raised an eyebrow, sarcastic still, but his wave of hand was inviting, and Susannah, almost shying back from his withdrawn behavior, continued nonetheless. He seemed to have taken her point at least.

„There is something going on, since that Black Pearl incident", Norrington winced almost invisibly, and Susannah continued quickly. „... since pirates destroyed the token my mother had. The Grey Storm is on the hunt again. Port Royal is scavaged by pirates once more, and..."

„A mere act of wild impulse, triggered by the fact that neither me nor the Dauntless were at Port Royal to protect it properly. Had I been there, I am sure, none of this would have happened." He pressed his lips into a thin line and his eyes became distant, cold again. As if he was drifting away in the sea of his own regrets. Susannah shook her head.

„No!" she denied, vigorously. „No." In a wild impulse, she placed a hand on his arm, trying, by touch, to reach him where her words could not, and he flinched, violently, jerking his arm away, but at least he was looking at her again. He was panting slightly, trying to regain his composure, and it was only then, that Susannah noticed, that her fingers were tingling softly as well and her heart beat a trifle louder in her ears.

„They would have come anyway", she disagreed, „and they would have taken what they wanted, had you been there or not."

„What did they want?" James asked, glad that his voice was steady. She had startled him, a sudden, unexpected touch when he had been untouchable, like a flash of light, suddenly and thoroughly tumbling over the last parts of his world, that still had been ordered.

He had, of course, flinched, and chased her hand away, but a small part of himself, buried deep, deep down, mourned the loss of contact.

It had been long since he had last felt the warmth of true companionship.

The skin on his arm was tingling.

„Me..." Her words tore him out of his tumbling thoughts and he stared at her incredulously.

„Pardon...?"

„They were coming for me", Susannah insisted, placing a hand on her heart for emphasis. „Mother and I we lived by the sea. You could have done nothing to keep them from coming to us, if they wanted to..."

„But why would a pirate want to come for you, of all people?" She was so serious about it that he did not have quite the heart to make it sound as ridiculous as she should have felt.

Absently, he was rubbing his arm.

Susannah swallowed.

„Have you ever met Crystabella Halvery?"

James frowned.

„The governor's guest? I think I have seen her once or twice, but..."

_A balcony_

_A figure with long, waving hair in the wind_

_And slow steps towards the gate_

_and then the sudden lurch of panic as he hid in the door of his balcony as the figure turned towards him._

„And while you have seen her, did there ever happen anything... odd?"

She was looking at him intently now, with a frown, as if she was trying to decipher something, the same, curious, intrusive glance that was so disquieting about her, and maybe it was because of that look, that he told her of the night that he had seen Leonora Halvery, almost escaping, but being called back by her mother, from the balcony, that had been more than just a few meters away.

Susannah nodded, thoughtfully.

„I do not know"; she said, „who Crystabella Halvery is, nor, whether there even is a woman that goes by this name. But what is currently living in the Governor's house under that name is neither good willing... nor human."

She continued, her hands folded neatly in a lap, as if she were a storyteller, and somehow, he could imagine her well between all her items of charlatanerie, telling the fortune to some sould waiting to be decieved.

There was something about her as she spoke.

„Twenty years ago, a ghost, a dangerous thing... was imprisoned by means of a charm. Four seals to the prison were distributed, four seals, signifying the virtues that conquered the ghost in the end, being given to keepers, for as long as the keeper is, what the seal implies, the charm is strong. Since then, the Grey Storm has never again travelled, but now my token is gone, and the evil is free again."

She paused, shortly, to collect her thoughts, and for once he did not interrupt, caught by the first daylight on her face and the seriousness of her tale.

„It took the form of Crystabella Halvery, how and why I do not know. And it has been in Port Royal since. It feeds on trust, on loyality. A promise made to her is binding, a trust once spoken can never be taken back. Loyality creates a bond, and she thrives on it, uses it."

She closed her eyes.

„I have reason to believe, that the Governor trusts her, at least."

James frowned, his interest now, finally peeked.

„What are you trying to say?"

„I am saying, that, for all I can tell, by now she might have the whole Port Royal under her command... including your former subordinates... I fear."

He shook his head, in denial.

„You cannot be serious."

But she was. And she did not reply to his comment, but only looked at him, with dark fanthomless eyes, as he tried not to remember the last time he and Weatherby Swann had spoken.

The governor had been harsh, and rightly so, but now, under Susannah's gaze, in the utter surreality of the situation, he wondered, if that behavior had really been all that characteristic for Swann. If anything, he was a very loyal man...

loyal...

and now, on second thought, he found it surprising, that there had not been at least the slightest kind word, the slightest effort in goodness, for the Governor had always been a kind, good man, in his way. And James had been close... to the family... to him. In the brief days of his engagement to Elizabeth, Swann had called him a son and been overjoyed for him to become part of the family.

Yet, he would not have deserved kindness.

He frowned at the maze of his thoughts, playing Susannah's words over in her mind. Something struck him.

„You have not answered my question", he reminded, not unfriendly.

„The ship that plundered Port Royal was an old merchant's ship. The „Mary of the seas", and it was the ship, that brought Crystabella Halvery to Port Royal in the first place..."

„Almington", James muttered, remembering a kind, level, sturdy man with incorrectable faith and a friendly manner, but Susannah continued.

„I cannot say what happened aboard this ship, so that they are now doing her bidding. But they came because I found out, of course."

James frowned. „How?"

Susannah sighed softly. She had dreaded to make this explanation, felt as if she was, indeed, explaining her innermost core to someone she barely knew.

„The same way I knew, that I was holding the ring of your father in my hands. The same way I knew, that the hunter was out again."

She passed a weary hand over her eyes, collecting her thoughts.

„I sometimes... see things... beyound what is apparent... like a dream, or more..."

She shuddered, and he was wise enough to leave her to her thoughts for just a moment. She seemed utterly drawn within herself, and while he loathed to admit, that what she said was true, this particular admission would indeed explain quite a lot of things.

„Like what would happen in the archipele", he said, not without resignation.

„I was truthful to you", she defended herself softly. „Believe me. After our... encounter in the Governor's house, I have tried to remember. I have tried often." She shrugged. „But I don't. I seldom do..."

„I may have acted rash that day", James said, all of a sudden, remembering his behaviour then and being struck by a sudden flash of bad conscience, as he remembered shaking her, attacking her. „I apologize."

She lifted her head, a frown plastered on her face. He had surprised her, obviously.

„No need", she said, her voice an equal measure of confusion and wonder. She watched him as if to discern his motives, and he returned the gaze, silently. With a sense of wonderment he realized, that the rift had closed, while he had not been looking, and for a wild moment, he asked himself about how long he had known Susannah Delanney.

The moment became unbearable, as seconds ticked by, and finally he continued.

„How did you escape?"

His voice was much softer, as if her honesty had opened a well in him as well, as if her step towards him had deprived him of the necessity to stand back and never, ever let her see behind the mask.

A flash of pain flew across her face and she closed her eyes, not quick enough though to hide the tears in them. She swallowed hard while he regretted even having asked.

„They were told to kill the seamstress that lives in the house by the sea. A woman with black curls and a pale face, and freckles..."

He paled in the early morning light, but she did not see it, and she continued, in a soft, emotionless tone.

„Crystabella Halvery did not know my mother... and the crew deemed their deed done..."

He fought desperately for something to say. Her misery, her pain was tangible, but he knew of no means to close the distance between them, to do something, that was at once helping and not intruding. She was, after all, such a very foreign and fleeting creature.

„Susannah..", again, her name was out before he knew it, but this time he did not even notice, caught up in his search for words. „I... I am... sorry... even though this must seem inadequate to you, spoken so, but..."

He broke off, trying to find a new start, but she was looking at him, forcing back tears with all of her might.

„I think", she said, her voice clouded with tears, „that I would like to be alone for a... mom.. moment..."

He hesitated for an instance, loathed to leave her, in this state of all things, but finally he nodded. Privacy. The most understandable of desires.

He got up and, at loss for words, only bid her an uncertain good night, as he passed through the curtains.

Sitting on the bed that was obviously Susannah's, he tried to see what was happening, and when the wind moved the curtains around, he sometimes got a glimpse of her figure, curled up in itself in the floor, but even though he strained his ears to hear it, she did not seem to utter a single sound...


	48. A fickle spark of curiosity

A/N: In the first - and second - draft of this story, he was bound to be a notice on the side, appearing in one chapter, then disappearing again. But - I confess - he kept pestering me, and pestering me, until now, he has found himself a larger role in this play.

So, due to his own demand, meet (again) Capitan Fernando Castellano of the spanish kingdom...

savvy: Thanks so much for your compliment on the Sparrow chapters - I really tried to make him more Sparrowesk, lately, and I am very glad that apparently in a smal bit I succeeded... I will try to continue to do so in future :-D

* * *

**Chapter 46 **

**A fickle spark of curiosity**

'Gaviota roja', the 'red seagull' stood in crude letters upon a weathered wooden sign that softly swayed in the breeze coming from the sea. Below the sign, hanging on the wall, someone, maybe fearing the fact, that few of his usual customers were capable of reading, had painted a simple picture of a bird in flight, wings spread out, the head barely recognizable. The house itself was small, hunched against the rocky shore, part of the back wall was formed by the cliffs, while the front side was a wind-battered mixture of wood and stone, the upper story half hidden under a hanging roof. It was, in all, a tavern, that carried a certain reputation throughout Spanish town, how the man currently entering the tavern would have called the place the tavern was located, or Sevilla Nuova, as the man, who was already waiting for him inside would have preferred. The town had surely seen better times, but it was the one place on Jamaica, where the influence of its earlier owners was still apparent, in population as well as in architecture.

It was the closest thing to a home, that Fernando Castellano had in these waters, and therefore the logical place for a meeting such as the one that he was about to hold.

Castellano was no coward. He had, in fact, managed quite a lot of tense situation without suffering any serious consequences, but something about this current meeting put him on the edge, enough to be careful.

Castellano, despite being, at the best of times, a soldier, was no stranger to the finer art of diplomacy – and he had been known to be a quite efficient and individual person, once his interest had been peeked towards a certain thing.

Such as, for instance, what was going on in the british capital of Port Royal at the moment.

He sat at a table, at ease, a tankard of beer before him, as he watched the entrance casually, calmly waiting for the person, that was just now entering the tavern, taking a look around.

By way of greeting, Castellano raised his tankard to attract the other man's attention. The description had been accurate. He had recognized him at once.

Ever the well-bred young bastard son of a spanish nobleman, he rose to his feet to greet his guest, smiling openly, a gesture, that came naturally, even if it was not heartfelt.

„Captain Almington, so good to see you."

* * *

The 'gaviota rosa' was one of those taverns, that allowed others for meetings where they would not attract attention. Therefore, it had, of course, always been a natural place for negotiations of any kind. And this was, what the two captains were here for after all.

They made an unlikely pair, the sturdy-built Almington, whose honest face seemed to betray his faithful, loyal personality, and lean, black-haired, dark-eyed, handsome Castellano, who seemed to be much more at ease in this situation than the british captain was. He offered a beer to his companion, playing the role of a perfect host with the same ease, that he had shown in his dealings with Elizabeth Swann, taking his time to watch Almington, to judge his behavior, to draw him out.

Almington did not have that same patience. He shifted uneasily in his seat, and finally it was him, who broke the silence between them.

„Why is it that you wanted to speak to me?"

Castellano smiled, taking a small sip out of his tankard. He had not met the british captain in person yet, but their contact had been very accurate in his description, in appearance as well as character.

„I am being informed", he launched, carefully, „that you are looking for a certain Miss Elizabeth Swann."

Something was flickering through Almington's gaze, for a moment, before he succeeded in masking it again. Castellano turned the tankard in his hand.

„That is true." Castellano had trouble masking his amusement at the plain spoken answer. Almington was, indeed, a very straightforward man. „Do you know where she is?"

Castellano squinted his eyes, took his time, to answer. There was something in the look of Almington, that struck him as odd, a predatory gaze, as he leaned forward. The british captain was not going to like what he was about to say.

„I am sorry, no."

„But you have an idea", Almington continued, not giving up on this so easily. Castellano looked thoughtfully into his tankard.

„Actually, to be honest, I have a question."

Almington frowned, but he said nothing, so Castellano continued.

„Why?"

For a moment, the british man seemed confused, off-foot. His frown grew deeper, lines etching into his forehead, as he pondered this question. Finally, he seemed to come to a conclusion.

„That is none of your concern", he replied, gruffly. Castellano did his best to stop his lips from twitching in amusement. Bull's eye – as the british said. There was indeed, something to it.

„That is unfortunate"; he replied, teasing the merchant before him further. „For, of course, the matter of an escaped Governor's daughter is something that does not only touch my own, private concerns. Certainly, you know that."

Theodore Almington twitched his lips in open disgust.

„So it seems, yes", he replied. „So may I think, that these are negotiations about a price."

Castellano smirked, apparently enjoying himself thoroughly. He waved for the barmaid – a plump girl with a friendly, yet, not too bright face and clear blue eyes, that seemed to carry a dreamy sort of look – to bring him a glass of strong liquor, offering another to Almington, who declined, outwardly polite, but with barely suppressed aversion.

„A price? Ah, well..." He downed the liquor, placing the glass on the table with a loud clank. „I would not exactly put it that way, to be honest. I am trying to figure out, what I should do."

Almington eyed him with open disgust. He had never harboured much fondness for the Spanish, and Castellano, smooth, confident and utterly corrupt, seemed to confirm every suspicion he ever had had about them. „Humor me", he said, his voice bereft of amusement, and Castellano smiled.

„Well, to put it simple..", he began, thoughtfully, „the matter of a vanished Governor's daughter in the heart of the british administration is... interesting news indeed. One might think, that good Weatherby Swann is not quite..." he smiled, „on top of things. Which would be a very interesting fact to certain ... places. One might also think, that, as long as good Miss Elizabeth Swann is gone, the british administration is occupied with different things than... say... taking a close look on what certain other people in the area are doing." Castellano smiled. „Wouldn't it be... imprudent of me to convey anything to you."

„That depends."

Almington had changed his posture, from a careful, hunched position to a more easy demeanor, leaning back against the chair and eyeing Castellano carefully. „On what your goals – and that of your government – are, of course." He smiled grimly, a challenge accepted. Castellano barely refrained from raising his eyebrows appreciatively. Apparently, he had misjudged the man. He seemed to be much smoother than he had thought. This began to be interesting.

„My goals, ah, isn't it obvious?" he retorted, thoughtfully watching Almington with a studied pose of ease. „I want to do, what everyone tries to do. Come out on top of things..."

„Well, of course", Almington replied, nodding as if he had expected nothing else. „but I wonder what would be needed for you to archieve this."

Castellano shrugged in a studied gesture.

„The most obvious thing, of course, would be to convey Port Royals current... ah... indisposal to my superiors – in fact, that would be what I am payed to do."

Almington nodded, grimly.

„The natural thing. But payment isn't everything, is it?"

Castellano smiled. He was truly beginning to enjoy this sparring match, especially since he had not thought that Almington would be capable of it. However, he was proving quite an interesting opponent, more gruff in his manner, but clever nonetheless.

„It would be a dark and dreary world", he replied, „where it would be. I myself have been known to give in to... curiosity."

„Curiosity is a fickle thing", Almington said, by way of scolding, smiling politely. „Hardy worth a bargain, is it? Not, when there are so many more interesting things around..."

Castellano shrugged, trying to mask his surprise. He had deemed the satisfaction of his curiosity an easy bargain for his opponent, a low price to be payed as a tribute to the extravagant nature of the spanish captain. But apparently, Almington was very unwilling to share any information. Of course, this peaked his interest even more.

„Like...?" he asked, trying to find out more about what Almington was willing to pay.

„Frankly, for the moment", the british captain replied smoothly, „my interest is primarily in the Caribbean." He leaned towards his opponent, eyes glinting as if beckoning. „I know well that our interests... clash in this part of the world. But the world is large..." He twinkled, good-naturedly, „and I cannot imagine, that there is nothing of interest to the spanish beyound plain and simple Port Royal..."

So, Castellano concluded, the cards were, in a way, on the table. The betrayal of the formidable Miss Swann against some valid information of his choice, as long as it was not in the Caribbean. He put the pieces together.

Almington had not been in these waters for quite a long time. Castellano had heard of him and the 'Mary of the seas' several times, while he had still been stationed in Spain, surveying the trade routes over to Africa, bringing up the occasional merchant, and as far as he knew, he had been in the Indian Ocean for quite some time.

Why then, this sudden interest in the Caribbean?

Castellano concluded that he was somebody's messenger, even though he could not fanthom whose it would be.

Unless... of course, the very person Elizabeth Swann was fleeing from. Castellano watched Almington.

The captain was sitting there calmly, looking at his fingernails, that were not grimy, but at least a little dirty, with open disgust. This more than anythign showed Castellano, that Almington was very, maybe even too sure of himself. He was mildly surprised at this. Almington was known to be a man of the sea, of few, honest words. Diplomatic fencing had never been one of his preferred pastimes.

„Whose voice are you at the moment?" Castellano asked, directly, hoping, that he could surprise his opponend, but the cool smile on Almington's face belied, that he was wrong.

„Is this important?" Almington parried the soft blow, very smoothly.

„Well, of course", Castellano replied, with conviction. „And both of us know this."

„That information, however, is not for sale, Captain." For once, all his candour had vanished, and Almington glared at his opponent sternly, as if he were a mother scolding her child, and even though this gaze should have been ridiculous in a man such as Theodore Almington, something about it was disquieting nonetheless. Castellano needed a moment to find his equilibrium again.

„A pity", Castellano replied. „Well, of course, this is not entirely my decision..."

„Oh please..." Almington shook his head. „This is mockery. I refuse to believe that you came here without sufficient liberty of decision. Please, do not disappoint my faith in your capabilities."

Castellano, again taken mildly by surprise, took his time to consider his answer.

„Captain Almington", he then began, with care. „As you may, or may not, know, my alliances lie neither with you, nor with whoever it is, that is currently holding your leash." A flash of anger in the other man's eyes. „As of now, you have not given me any reason to convey to you the information that you seek – provided that I even had it." He leaned back, placing the tips of his fingers against each other, taking his time to formulate his answer. „As of now, my answer is no."

There was a flash of something primal in Almington's eyes, a rage, that Castellano would not have thought the friendy man capable of, and for a moment he was tempted to shrink back, but he did not, schooling his face carefully so that it would not even betray the slightest hint of uneasiness, that had befallen him. The english captain pressed his lips together in open disappointment and disapproval, but an inquiring glance on the spanish man's face seemed to tell him that the matter had been decided already. Fernando Castellano did not have the reputation of a man that wavered, once he had set his mind to a task.

„Very well", Almington said, with effort. „You are making a mistake Castellano, but I will not correct you for it if you prefer it this way. Keep your secrets, I will find them in another way. But do remember that you have only yourself to blame. For anything, that is to come."

Castellano raised his brows at the pathetic attempt at a threat, weak, if he had ever seen one, but he did not answer, and Almington, having unleashed his fury into an utterly unresponsive audience, got up with a quick movement.

„Good evening, captain." He spat the last word at him and turned to leave the tavern, with steady, large strides. Castellano looked after him thoughtfully.

„Keep your secrets, indeed", he murmured, then downed the last of his drink. „As if there were nothing more to it."

* * *

„Unsuccessful trading?"

Castellano raised his gaze to look at the keeper of the tavern, a man in his fifties, large, gaunt, the wrinkled face pulled into a smile.

„To be honest, I am not sure yet, Laurenzo", he replied and Laurenzo sat, without being invited, but apparently welcome nonetheless. „There is something more to it, and something, that I cannot quite fanthom. It makes me curious, though."

„This is still about the Swann girl?" Laurenzo continued, curiously, and Castellano grinned broadly.

„With an open curiosity such as yours, I wonder how you survive in this business."

Laurenzo grinned, apparently unconcerned.

„Everybody likes me. That is my secret. Not the worst of reputations, if you come to think of it."

Castellano laughed.

„True enough, if you like to put it that way. But, yes, this is still about that Swann girl, as you so nicely put it. If anything, I am more sure, that in Port Royal, there is something going on that is definitely worth knowing."

„You should consider a trip there", Laurenzo advised, smiling, as he opened his hand under the table, for only Fernando to see. The captain took the hint – and some coins out of his pocket – and the tavern keeper continued without as mich as a wink. „The time seems particularly favourable indeed. I hear, that already some time ago, the great Dauntless, flaggship of the Caribbean, sank somewhere in the middle of a storm. And that our dear friend, Commodore Norrington, has, maybe as a result, quit the lovely british caribbean capital to seek his fortune elsewhere – not the worst decision if you come to consider the way his luck there has been going lately."

Castellano smirked.

„One might pity the man, true enough. But the Dauntless... is this sure?" He shook his head. „When?"

„I do not know for sure", Laurenzo confessed, „but not as recently as one might think. It seems, they managed to keep it under cover for quite a while."

„Under cover? Such a thing?" Castellano sounded every bit as scandalized as he was – Laurenzo had a way of setting people at ease – a feat very useful in his first as well as in his second business.

„You know it has always been hard getting people into Port Royal, and especially into the finer circle. That man Norrington is..."

„Luckily gone", Castellano replied, thoroughly relieved.

„True. But still... it has not become easier, I fear to say."

Castellano shook his head.

„This is getting weirder every time I think about it."

„So, what are you going to do about it?" Laurenzo asked casually. Castellano shot him a short glance, replying in the same tone. „So, who payed you for luring that information out of me?"

Laurenzo smiled, shrugging.

„I am shocked. What do you think of me?"

„Just as well", Castellano replied, shrugging as well. „I might need your help in this anyway." Laurenzo managed to look utterly flattered. „I will try and find Miss Swann myself – it seems the easiest way to get any answers, that is for sure. I have some leads... and no, I will not tell you about them..."

„This is going to be tougher if she has travelled to England"; and once more, Castellano marveled at how easily Laurenzo, locked up in Sevilla Nuova all the time, gathered information like a farmer harvesting his fruits. „With Crystabella gone and all..."

„She is sorely missed, indeed", Castellano replied with regret. „As well as her daughter. But there are others, and we both know it. It will be more difficult, but not impossible."

„Ah, well", Laurenzo replied, tapping on the table and getting up again. „'S been a pleasure, like always, Fernando. Call on me when you need something, eh?"

Castellano nodded, once more lost to his thoughts.

„I will, Laurenzo. I will."

* * *

Portsmouth was ugly at this time of year, Castellano thought, as he stood aboard the Rosa, surveying the port. He had never much liked the cold, dreary northern island that had sent their ships mostly everywhere around the world, but he could understand, that, living in a place such as this made you indeed set out for foreign coasts.

He was, of course, surveyed strongly as his cargo was carried off the ship – he would have expected nothing else for a british ship anchoring in a spanish port – but young Alec had managed to sneak out anyway. The boy, borrowed from Blackbeard's crew, was priceless when it came to asking the right questions at the right places. And so, he stood at the bow of the ship, watching the bustling activity in the port, calmly, as if there were really nothing about his visit here.

Alec took his sweet time, and only came back ant the brink of dusk, slendering up the gangway with the dockworkers bringing who came to unload the rest of the cargo, looking very casual. Castellano smiled. He liked the boy.

Alec was maybe fourteen or fifteen – Castellano doubted, that the boy knew for himself – with mousy brown hair and clear blue eyes, that belayed an intelligence he had found to appreciate.

Alec was grinning smugly, seemingly very satisfied with himself.

„She was here", he told Castellano, as they were standing in the captain's cabin. „And so was her friend. Some time ago, already. They went up the coast to a village, and from there vanished only a morning after. Didn't find, where they were going... but they will pass a message to us if we wait near the channel islands, once she si coming back." He grinned broadly.

„Good work, boy", Castellano praised. „That is provided, of course, that she comes back to Portsmouth."

„You think she's gone for good?" Alec asked, tilting his head. „Stays in England, I mean?"

Castellano shook his head. „I do not think so. She is bound to go back to the Caribbean, I am sure of it. And once she does, she will give me some answers, so much is sure..."


	49. Forged

**Chapter 48**

**Forged**

"What now…?" she asked the wind, as if she were expecting an answer. Maybe, considering the very peculiar nature she was. But whatever advice the fickle elements would have been able to give, they chose not to do so, and the wind, coming from the sea in the early morning hours, just strong enough to keep her loose strands out of her face, was devoid of messages for Susannah to read.

Thoughtfully, she picked up her embroidery again, a fine decoration for a dress she had in mind, something, to occupy her hands, to be honest, while her mind was thoroughly elsewhere.

She was sitting on a rock ashore, her bare feet touching the water as Tia Dalma had taught her, to always stay in contact with that which was supposed to feed and uphold her, but Susannah, despite her best intentions, doubted, that it had quite the same effect on her. She had already known, that while Tia Dalma's magic fed almost solely on the sea, hers most definitely did not.

The changeable element remained a stranger, someone to be approached with care and thought – much as, she thought, not a little wrily, the guest that was currently sleeping off the remnants of his rough times in Tortuga.

Bitter and hurt, he was a loose cannon, lashing out at what was in his reach, and hiding behind a mask all the same.

Not for the first time, she would have wished for Tia Dalma to pick an easier task for her. But while she had been talking to him in the night, she had well recognized, that, her personal uneasiness concerning him nonewithstanding, he indeed had the bearings of a rock, that would stand against the tide. Somewhere, beneath bitterness and pain, was steel.

This was, she thought, what Tia Dalma sought to unravel in him.

It was early still, and Susannah loved these morning hours, where the air was still clear and cool, and the heat, that would be coming with the sun, had not yet reached its full force. Born in the Caribbean, Susannah was used to the weather conditions, but she preferred otherwise, as if memory of the weather of a far off island in northern Europe had passed down from her mother to her somehow.

At times, she wondered, what Ireland would be like.

Her hands worked quickly, finding solace in the well-known movements, as she hummed to herself softly, wondering, what she would do, once her guest woke up. Her time was running out. The revelation of the night had left her full of unease, and even as the dream was receding, loosing some if its clarity along the way, she was sure that something awful was happening out on the sea, and that the web, so carefully woven by Tia Dalma, was on the brim of falling.

But what was there, that she could do? She had faced, more of an impulse then born of conscious thought, the Grey Storm, but it had not been on her track then, and she was not sure that she could do it again.

But she was not on her own any more. That fatal day close to Tia Dalma's island, they had been together as well, the three keepers of the keys, Sparrow, Norrington and herself, but they had not known then, and maybe this time, things would be different.

They had to be, if what she was fearing, was true.

The morning drew on, and she continued to work, singing softly to herself and enjoying the last moments of peace offered to her. She had not slept much after her conversation with the Commodore in the shadows of the night, but these morning hours helped her settle her thoughts as sleep would maybe also have done.

The sun raised into the sky, reflecting off the shimmering water surface, but her face and eyes were shielded by a hat and she did not mind. She was, after all, a child of this place.

There was movement behind her, the soft crack of her door being opened and the following sounds of footfalls, of someone, who was trying, maybe not his best, but still trying, not to attract attention. Susannah put down her embroidery. The pieces were falling into place, and there was no time for avoidance any more.

She turned around to see James Norrington standing in her door, looking out, maybe at the sea, maybe at her, his eyes unfocused for a moment, before they fixed on her. He looked distinguishingly better than he had the day before – maybe also better than the night before, but her mind had been fixed on other things then, and about this she was not sure. Life had returned to the green eyes of his, and he apparently had taken her offer to clean up a bit and change his clothes. He was miles away from the stiff man commanding Port Royal, miles even from the bitter man that had cornered her in the governor's house, a lifetime ago, but also, relieving miles away from the wreck that he had been when she had found him in the gutter, beaten and bleeding and too drunk to care. She smiled.

"Good morning, Commodore…", she said, trying her best to sound open and welcoming. He seemed to be taken aback for a moment, blinking, as if she had surprised him, staring at her then, as a second passed, then another.

Then, he nodded.

"G… good morning, Miss Delanney", he replied, his baritone a trifle more unsteady than she was used to, and she had to avert her eyes again, looking back towards the piece of cloth in her lap. She folded it, with care, always trying to find something to do, while she was trying to find something to say, but he spared her the trouble, in a fit of dry humor, after a glance to the sky, where the sun was already as high as it would climb this day. "Although morning does not quite fit the occasion, don't you think?"

She raised her head, surprised to see the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, not reaching his eyes, not even reaching his cheeks, but she appreciated the effort and returned it.

"This is Tortuga", she reminded. "I would say, that you are just in time to say 'good morning'." He looked surprised, even unsettled for a moment, but then he nodded, the dry humor emerging again as he took a careful step towards her.

"True enough", he admitted.

Susannah turned her face to the sea again, looking out to the endless blue, as she was, again, looking for words, trying to find out, how she should begin to explain what she could not postpone any longer. Up to now, it had been his questions, that had dictated what she revealed and what she kept to herself, but she knew, that she could not afford herself this luxury any longer.

It seemed easier now to open up to him, when he was, probably, at his most human, neither commanding nor snarling, and she did not feel as threatened as she used to, when he slowly came to stand beside her, lowering himself on another rock, so that they were sitting, side by side, to stare out at the sea. They were speaking in silence.

"Port Royal must be somewhere in this direction", Susannah mused, finally, to give his thoughts a direction and from the corner of her eye, she saw him flinch violently. Hurt passed through his eyes for a moment, and he pressed his lips together in search for composure. Susannah closed her eyes in regret. She had not meant to hurt him.

"It is more to the south, actually", James replied, his voice rough, as he pointed towards the sea, in a direction that to Susannah seemed no different than any other. But his compass had always been sure in naval matters.

Slowly, he let his hand sink again, turning towards Susannah. There was urgency in his eyes, and she did not dare meet them, but followed his now-unseen link towards where her nemesis would be – towards where everything would finally, once more, lead her. She was filled with dread and therefore unprepared, when he spoke again, his voice tingled with his very own, only thinly-veiled desperation.

"Miss Delanney, I have to know… how… serious were you in your words that night? Concerning Port Royal?"

"I meant every word I said, Commodore", she replied truthfully and he flinched once more, raising a hand to stop her, with forced calm saying, "not that title, I…" but breaking off again, because, at the moment, this was one of the things that were least important.

Susannah swallowed hard, on the brink of apologizing, but he continued, in a much more subdued tone, almost thoughtful.

"What is it you expect of me?" he asked, his gaze once more turned to the sea, as if she could give him solace.

"To do, what you swore to do", she replied, surprised by his open question. She would not have expected him giving in to this point and was determined to honor this courage. She knew quite well, that both of them did not take leaps of faith easily. "I want to chase this ghost out of Port Royal… I have to chase it out of Port Royal… and I cannot do so alone…"

"But how are you planning to do this?" Considering, that he was a commander of men, an officer of the navy, he sounded quite doubting. Susannah took her feet out of the water, hiding them beneath her long skirt.

„I am not sure", she said. „I... do not understand all of it yet."

He did not reply, just raised two brows in a gesture of – mock? - worry? - she could not tell, and thus, she continued, carefully.

„But I fear for what has happened out there, yesterday. And I wish... I could do something about it."

„You know more about this, don't you?" He looked at her, and she was not surprised, for she had always known for him to be sharp-witted. His green eyes held her gaze, demandingly, and she took a deep breath. "This was not just a sudden revelation like…" He let it trail off into nothingness, but they both knew he was speaking of the strange day on the docks that had triggered it all. Susannah nodded.

„Yes. But you are not going to like it."

His mouth twitched, again.

„Why don't you leave the judging to me and give me the honor of an honest answer, for once?" he asked, sounding, of all the emotions, tired. „I would very much appreciate that."

She nodded, fighting the hurt at his words. She knew, that she was avoiding him. Yet, she could not tell him how hard it seemed for her to be honest, and open with him. Yet, his gaze was too demanding. And his request too just.

„The Grey Storm, I fear, has been out again this night", she said, softly. „It has chased the daughter of Crystabella Halvery, Leonora, who, unlike the lady, is truly what she appears to be. It seems, that she has been trying to flee from her more than one time, but she never succeeded. This is why, now, she has been taken captive, of sort, to free her of the spirit that has taken possession of her mother. I am not sure, that this is, what the Grey Storm was after, but it seems quite likely, considering the time, and..." she broke off, starting at another place, „and I fear, for her as well as for her captor."

James placed together the pieces, his mouth thinning to a line.

„This is about Sparrow, isn't it?"

Susannah nodded meekly.

Norrington closed his eyes and shook his head, softly, but only moments later, he seemed to be in control again.

„Tell me something, pray", he said, his voice measured. „Why Sparrow? Why ally yourself with him, of all people? Why send him on something as... precarious as snatching a prize prey away under the nose of something that is, if what you say is true, immanently dangerous? He is an incompetent, untrustworthy..."

„I know very well what he is", Susannah cut in, softly, yet determinedly, and he broke off his words. „Do not think that I trust him. Because I don't."

„Then why?" he insisted, like a hunter on a track. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"There were more than two seals that held the charm …", she said, leaving him to conclude the rest, and he did, staring at her incredulously.

"Please", he said, partially pleading, partially sounding profoundly annoyed, "you can not be serious in saying that he is mixed up in this as well."

"He is", Susannah said, shrugging. "And I like it no more than you."

Norrington snorted in utter disgust.

"The lunacy of it", he snarled. "How could anyone be so incredibly silly, incredibly ludicrous to include Sparrow in something such as this, assuming that it is, indeed important? That man is barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other, much less guard something important. Such as, say, a ship for example." He sounded as if he were spitting venom, utterly angry, a well reopened. Susannah looked at him with sadness in her eyes.

"What do you need to fell a tyrant?" she asked, softly, and he frowned at the tone in her voice. Again, she sounded lost, far away even, as if she were only calling him from miles away. "What do you need to keep injustice away? What do you need so that a promise remains a promise, so that trust remains trust, given out of itself and not of another's force? This is the key to the charms, and by this, the keepers were chosen. This is the path we walk upon, James Norrington, and everything else becomes unsubstantial in this light."

Involuntarily, he shivered at the sudden force of her voice, and Susannah felt a new strength waxing as if, after days of swimming, she had finally reached stable ground under her feet, as if, ashore, there was a hint of green hills smelling with the remnants of wind and rain.

"There is the stubbornness of resistance", she explained, since he was apparently listening eagerly, "to still remember what is right and what is wrong, to recognize the path into the abyss and be strong enough to struggle against it. Your father was a very strong man…"

James tried to remember, but there were random images only, few snatched moments, until, much too early, the sea had taken his father from him, twenty years ago. It was painful to think of him now, that, after so much strife to match his steps, he had utterly fallen from his grace.

"There is the fealty of a friend", she continued, now softer, sadder, since this was her own, her personal history that she was laying bare, "to stand for a given promise out of free will, and to go beyond this unbidden. The epitome of the word loyalty…" She sighed, but there was no way of breaking this to him lightly, of softening the bond, that it would be creating, no matter their wish. "I have reason to believe that Jonathan Delanney's last deed was to throw himself between his Commodore and the abyss…"

Shock in green eyes. Susannah forced herself to stand it, looking into his eyes, forced herself to anchor him, as he understood the nature of the bond, that had torn them in this hell together. A remarkable number of emotions, all of them suppressed only a wink after appearing, chased each other over his features, revelation, pain, confusion, shame, determination, and mixtures of them, a storm behind an expressionless exterior. It was intimidating.

"There are the dreams of the free", she continued with effort, seeing, that her words brought him back from his own thoughts, but only barely, and she continued, to keep him there, like a siren with a song. "To remember, what the fight is for, to remember, why false trust is foul, like a fruit rotten from within."

"Sparrow", James replied, understanding, admitting.

"And there is the wisdom of the old", she concluded, "knowledge passed on through the ages of old charms and old stories, bottom face and topmost corner." She hinted the parts of an imaginatory triangulum with her fingers.

"That imprisoned it, twenty years ago. But this time, this may not be enough…"

He shook his head, softly.

"How do you know all this? How do you know it is true? Where…"

"Do you know what sailors mean, if they are sailing upstream…?" she asked, hoping she would not have to explain, and he did not disappoint her. James Norrington, knowing the Caribbean like the back of his hand, also knew its myths, ghosts and all. He nodded, softly, giving in.

"They say a sorceress lives there", he recalled a story told long ago. "Fierce and dangerous and wise and old."

Susannah nodded, wordlessly, as she saw, that he began to understand. And then, in a manner of defeat, he closed his eyes.

"And she is the spider in the web", he concluded, not seeing Susannah's curt nod, but not needing it anyway. "I understand… And Sparrow was sent to get Leonora Halvery… why?"

"Because she is the one person that can probably know, what happened. She knows her mother. She knows, how she came here. She might know, how she has come to be in the position she is – and how far her power goes." With every word, she felt more certain, more confident. "But the Grey Storm was sent after her… and after Jack Sparrow, I think."

He squinted at her, warily.

"And you expect me to race after him to", it was agony just forcing it over his lips, "help Sparrow?" Exasperation seeped out of every syllable of his speech.

Susannah knew, guessed, estimated, what she was asking for. She had, if only by Elizabeth's tale, understood quite well what Sparrow meant to the Commodore, and what a burden she was trying to pose unto his shoulders by her request. He had fallen from grace – true enough – but she was asking him to fall even further, throw away the easiest way of redemption – bringing Sparrow back in triumph – for an uncertain plot that even she did not know the result to. She could see in his eyes, that maybe, she was asking too much.

"I expect… us…", she put an emphasis on the word, "… to help Port Royal", she replied, trying not to sound as meek and demure as she felt – knowing what she was imposing on him.

She could tell how he clenched his teeth together, his whole posture an epitome of tension, of fight. He was, in fact, breathing erratically, unable, for the moment to meet her gaze, looking out to the sea again, where, miles and miles away, somewhere there must be the rocky shore of Port Royal.

"Do you even", he said, his voice strained, "have any idea on where to look for him."

"Not yet…" Now she was definitely sounding subdued, her hands wringing in her lap. "There might be a way…"

He turned around facing her, face expressionless, green eyes in turmoil, all question, all tenseness, torn between shores and beaten by the wind.

"… but I might need your help for this… too", she finished, almost a whisper, and her eyes held his, with almost a pleading note.

Maybe it was this expression that toppled the stone. His voice was remarkably steady as he nodded.

"What am I to do?"

* * *

The water was cool, fresh, soothing in the noon heat that was burning onto their heads mercilessly, but standing waist-deep in the ocean, rocks beneath their feet and waves around them, the Caribbean sun seemed less unbearable. Out here, some way off the port of Tortuga, the water was clear and clean again, fishes skittering away from the strange intruders, that now stood motionless facing each other as the wind toyed with their hair, their clothes.

Susannah's hands were grazing the water as if in a caress, fingers now free of the gloves, that she had tucked into her belt, trying to find the whispering voices Tia Dalma had spoken of so often while she was teaching her, but the water remained an element alien to her, and silence was her only answer.

"I have been taught…"; she began, causing James to flinch at her first words after a long silence, in which she had just acted, but not explained, "how to call forth the things that I sometimes see. I have never tried it, yet, but it seems, there is no other way." She closed her eyes, swallowing, dreading to explain something so close to her heart.

"It is easier, the better the focus is, I was told. I remember that these.. visions… are always called forward by something personal… touch, sorrow, worry, weakness on my part…" She avoided his gaze, staring into the water as she looked for something in one of the pockets hanging on her belt. "I have this…", she said, holding out to him a small, flat shape, and he took it, with care, recognizing it almost immediately.

"One of the coins Sparrow wears in his hair."

She nodded as he turned around the item, not even wanting to ask how she had come by this thing, and she offered no explanation of herself.

"And this will… grant you a vision?" he asked, steering into another direction. She shrugged, looking a trifle uncertain. A deep breath later, she was able to look him in the eye again, gaze wavering, yet with underlying determination.

"Maybe not on its own", she said, her fingers playing through the water. "But there is the sea… whatever has happened to Jack Sparrow, the sea has seen… the sea can tell. And there… there… is you."

He frowned, but she continued, now in a rush, as if she were trying to get rid of the words as quickly as possible.

"Two parts of the triangulum charm, and he is the third. This might be the connection to him, the way that I can find him. Maybe this will… strengthen whatever brings these visions to me, and I…"

He raised his head, to silence her, questioning green eyes firmly fixed on her.

"Just one question, Miss Delanney…", he said, almost softly, "do you believe in what you say?"

She closed her eyes against his piercing gaze.

"Sometimes I do", she said, finally, "and sometimes I feel I have no other choice."

Silence fell, as the gulls cried above them and the water lapped lazily on the shore. Waves passed by, the tide coming in.

"Very well." His voice, usually strong, was almost inaudible over the sounds of the sea. "Then I will, too."

She opened her eyes to find him looking at her once again, but now, the bridge was crossed and stood burning, and there was no turning back.

She took a step closer to him, stretching out a hand that was trembling visibly, and he took it in his own, Sparrows coin like a cool barrier between a touch that suddenly seemed to intimate for both of them. His hands were warm, dry, his grip firm, as he clasped her hand, and amidst the pounding of her heart, the urge to run and flee, the desperate, oh so desperate wish that this should work, that she should really see something, so she would not have brought both of them in this embarrassing situation for nothing, she was lost. She looked for something to anchor herself, something steady in the twirl, and there was his hand, and there were his eyes, green, confused, widened, his breath coming a trifle quicker, too, as if her own turmoil had gripped him as well. She coughed, surprised, torn, falling, and concentrated on his eyes, as the only steady point in her world, green, green, like the sea in a storm, even if it where called grey, beating around a ship with black sails like a children's toy, the ship flailing from side to side, as a small figure – no, two figures – swam towards an island barely visible in the turmoil, but the waves were crashing higher, higher, and there was water all around her and she could not breathe.

And suddenly there was light, air, burning, burning in her lungs, and she coughed, spat out salty water, eyes squeezed shut. Her feet scrambled for ground and she found it, finally, realizing at the same time, that there were hands holding her up firmly by the shoulders, while she was fighting for breath, soaking wet, only slowly realizing what had happened.

"I'm… sorry"; she choked out, but he did not even reply, just steadied her, until she felt better again, and her trembling receded.

"Can you stand?"

She nodded, after placing her bare feet firmly on the ground, her hands shoving strands of wet hair out of the way. The hat had gone, and so had the gloves. The hands released her and she stood on her own.

At last being able to distinguish where she was again, she turned around, once more claiming "I am sorry" to face James Norrington, who looked, as if he had had his share of sea water as well, even though he was not as thoroughly soaked as her. His brown was furrowed and he watched her somewhat anxiously, as if he was worrying.

"May I assume this was… a success?" he asked warily.

"I am not sure", Susannah confessed, wiping the remnants of salt water out of her eyes. "I… have seen something. Him, I think. He is alive."

"Now that is good news", James said, sarcastic, his tone biting, but only an instant later he schooled his expression again, a curt nod served as an apology for the loss of control.

"It is", Susannah answered, by way of reprimanding, "but I do not know, whether we can find him by this…" She shivered, as a cool breeze took up, grazing her wet clothes, and she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth.

"… but we should not discuss that here", James finished, with firmness. "Come to the shore, you need something warm."

He was carefully guiding her, and she was too weak, to confused to object, following like a trembling puppet, cold and – astonishingly – exhausted. He placed her on the rock that she had sat on before and went to get a blanket from her house, wrapping her in it. His movements were practical, as if he was not even thinking about it, and only when he placed himself onto the same rock he had sat on earlier, she felt, that he was truly looking at her again, this time, inquisitively.

"Well…?" he asked.

"I saw an island", Susannah said, thoughtfully. "Jack Sparrow and… I think Leonora Halvery swimming towards it. The Black Pearl in danger…" She sighed. "And the storm… the storm everywhere around them…"

Norrington squinted his eyes.

"Do you know where they were going?"

Susannah nodded weakly. She felt exhausted.

"They wanted to get to her…", she said, "the woman living upstream. On the island, where you landed after the sinking of the Dauntless…"

He clenched his fists again, and Susannah knew, that she had hurt him again without wanting to, but he found his composure soon enough, his face expressionless.

"I see", he said, slowly, then got up. "What do you think. Is there any place in this godforsaken town, where we could find a navigational map of the area?"

His words were so casual that she only later understood what he was truly saying. Eyes wide, she nodded, and he clenched his lips to a thin line, as if what he was about to do would require a great deal of force of will on his part.

But then, maybe it did.


	50. The many faces of Captain Castellano

A/N: Hello everybody,

this chapter is, unavoidably filled with a few historic facts, which forced me to historically place the PotC-Stories. This is literally impossible, so I just decided to help myself with the WIkipedia timeline and just wring the rest to my willing... and thus, we end up in the year of 1764-1765. Yes, I know, Port Royal has been destroyed by then, but I decided to place it there anyway, I hope you will forgive the anachronism...

So, a short essay:

1765, Spain was reigned by Carlos III, who was said to be quite a sensible ruler, who has done a lot for the colonies overseas (Fernando Castellano will love to hear this).

Infante Carlos, of whom is spoken here, is the future king Carlos IV; about whom historians are quite certain to be of no sound mind at least in his later years - I took the liberty of placing the appearance of his maladie a bit earlier.

The family d'Este, into which Crystabella's sister Hernanda has married, has bred Isabella d'Este, who was the mother of Odoardo Farnese, Duke of Parma and Piacenca, and he was the father of Elisabetta Farnese - the mother of Carlos III.

I imagine, that the family has developed a spanish branch during these three generations (or that they even came from Spain), so that Hernanda really married 'into royality' as she would put it.

Enough of the dry facts.

Enjoy Fernando Castellano's schemes...

**The many faces of Capitan Fernando Castellano**

The weather was harsh, nothing unusual fort his time of year in Saint Malo, a rough western wind battling the small bay, sweeping hair and clothes around in its own, stubborn rhythm, while the inhabitants, used to this kind of weather, braved it with the same, calm breton fatality, that Fernando Castellano at times found so endearing.

In a way, the town was not unlike Spanish Town, or Port Royal, for that matter, hustling and bustling, ships arriving, cargo being unloaded or boarded, fisherboats coming in with the tide around noon.

Castellano smiled.

His nets were long spread, the fish he was about to capture, was surely not far away. Everything was going, in fact, according to his plans.

His face was touched with spray as the water was rising. The tide was coming in, and it was time, that he found a place in the city itself, behind the walls, for in an hour, the place that he was standing on would be overswept with water.

The town was very well known for its high tide.

He broke his reverie and turned his back to the swelling sea - there would be another time for it. For now, there were other things to do. Back in the tavern, there were letters to be written, and to be sent, some of his correspondents had been kept in the dark for much too long.

Not a good idea, as far as some of them were concerned.

Back in his tavern, the greyish light only with difficulties fending off the darkness, he took out the letter again, turning it thoughtfully in his hands.

The script was graceful, beautiful even, the work of an educated person, and the one failure at stealth that he had never truly managed to cure her off of. It was also, in fact, the one thing that was beautiful about Marta, but attractiveness had never been an issue when it came to his choice of a spouse.

She was the daughter of a nobleman - and therefore signified quite anascent in social standing for him - and behind the graceful scriptand beautifully placed words, he knew well, that there was hidden the face of a hag.

She never had any illusions about his reasons for marrying him and was not unsatisfied with the circumstances. They had, after the birth of Enrique, their second son, without any verbal agreement, decided, that dynasty duties were now fulfilled, relieving both of them of a very awkward act and very insatisfactory arrangement, and since then, the relationship between them had improved.

He had come to appreciate the dry realism, and the quick wit that was hidden behind drooping eyes and a curved nose, as well as the fact, that Marta Castellano was probably the most underestimated woman of the court. The lower circles of the court, of course, until infanta Maria Antonia had offered her the post of one of her abigails. Apparently, as Marta had commented drily - and this comment in itselfwas, in Fernando's eyes, a telltale story of the character of his wife - the lady was worried for the fealty of her husband who was known to appreciate a pretty face and body, and there was no need for worry in Marta Castellano.

If she was offended, she did not show it.

He had never told her about the more refined parts of what he did, when he was out at sea, but he had not needed to, because this was Marta, and there was not much that escaped her.

Two years into their marriage, when they were still attempting to share rooms and beds, she had, quite casually, relied a very valuable information to him without so much as a shrug. She might as well have been talking about the weather or a social gathering coming up, and so he had taken a moment to understand, what it was, that she had said. She had never openly mentioned it, but she had become more and more useful during the years, and he had begun to confide in her.

He had never asked her how she knew, and he was very doubtful she would have told. Marta guarded her secrets well, and so did he. Both of them were well beyound prying.

After his first meeting with Elizabeth Swann he had sent an enquiry to her, the reply to which he was now holding in his hands, in her delicate, beautiful letters, yet, what she was writing was more than ugly.

_There are, of course, only rumors, as you can tell, but my information comes more or less from Crystabella's sister directly. Of course you and I know, that she excels in intrigues and deceptions, but for once, I cannot help but be almost convinced of her honesty in that matter, mostly, because she does not look her best in this whole affair._

_We all have known - for long, in fact - that Crystabella was a very extraordinary person. She passed a lot of pieces of valuable information, apparently being in contact with the better part of the british royal council. The ambassadorial visit in France might not have been half as successful, had it not been for her very accurate informations on the upcoming plans._

_However, even though I am sure that it will not surprise you, she did raise a few suspicions along the way. Her husband was english, although I think it is safe to say, that his loyalities lay with the highest bidder. Unfortunately the same could be said for Crystabella, and I am by no means sure, that we always were in that position. _

_  
You might remember the unfortunate situation that Don Garellio found himself in at the court of Vienna five years ago, and for all I can tell we can be sure that this situation was by no means to be called a coincidence. His correspondents at the emperor's court were undoubtfully informed of his true intentions, which turned out to be a great misfortune._

_There were rumors among the court, that Crystabella Halvery had known about the finer details of that particular mission - presumably via theCount of Montpellier, who has been known to act as a contact for her (he is her cousin on the mother's side, as you may or may not know) - and the same rumors hinted, that she might have had a hand in that particular disaster._

_She was too valuable then, but this was only the first hint of many, that Lady Halvery was serving more than one master. Things began to get worse when her daughter became more apt in the art of forgery, and her possibilities therefore increased. A year before her disappearance, it had, to certain circles, become apparent, that she was indeed selling information at least two ways._

_You know very well of her usefulness to us, especially as far as the colonies were concerned - with Lord Halvery being in the Trading Company - so her extravagances were tolerated, as long as the damage dealt was calculabe, but her spanish contacts became more careful in what they confided to her and what information she should gain access to._

_She must have realized this at some point or other, and I can only guess how her reaction to this was, but evidence clearly shows, that then, she became bolder, and her actions - especially the letters written by her daughter - more prying._

_I can only speculate what it is, that she knows - or better knew - about the young infante Carlos, for this is apparently information that is as dangerous as it is hard to come by. You may have heard, that young Carlos is not said to be the brightest mind, and the court is - at the back of the king, of course - abuzz with stories about him, soI might judge, that the secret we are talking about is along these lines.(I should add that the infante is going to be married very soon, which might add to the necessity of keeping whatever it is, very quiet)_

_To make a long story short - apparently the information that Crystabella stumbled upon was very dangerous, and apparently more dangerous than she realized, for I learned, that she boasted about it in a letter to her sister Hernanda - which may well have been the last mistake she ever made._

_I have therefore strong reason to believe, that it was Hernanda d'Este, who set up the trap for her sister at Hungerford marked in London - and it can be assured, that Crystabella Halvery, after all, died by the hand of an assassin acting on spanish orders._

_  
It has also been confirmed that her husband died with her, however, as far as the Donna d'Este is concerned, it is quite probable, that her daughter, Leonora, escaped unscathed. She has not been seen since, but apparently her body has not been found by british authorities when they discovered the Halverys dead at Hungerford market, and if she inherited the  
resourcefulness of her mother, she may well have found a spot for herself out of harm's way for now._

_Without wanting to sound too stern, I would nonetheless strongly advise you to drop this subject after this letter, however, since the name of Crystabella Halvery seems one, that is carrying quite a dangerous note at the court these days - we could, on a whim, destroy months of hard work this way._

_With the hope of having been of assistance, I remain..._

Castellano folded over the parchment twice, carefully, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Marta was, in her way, indeed a gem.

The point of Crystabella's sudden departure from this world cleared, he turned towards other things, that had to be attended to. Upon his return to the tavern, he had been given a small note that signalled an event that he had been waiting for for quite some time, and if he was honest to himself, he had done so impatiently.

Once more taking his jacket with him, he left the tavern for the docks, where, safe and sound, the "Rosa" was anchoring, with only a mimimum crew on deck taking care of the ship. A few feet off there was one of the small cottages that were used to store cargo that was being loaded and unloaded, and in front of this building, built from small stones tied together with mud, a man was sitting, smoking on a pipe. His age was impossible to estimate, his face being mostly obscured by a greying beard, the remaining visible part carved as if in stone, but under the cap and between all this greying hair, blue eyes were strangely awake and watchful.

"Pierre", Castellano said, by way of greeting. Pierre disposed of the pipe with thoughtful movements, answering the greeting.

"Fernande."

"Good to see you", Castellano continued, in only slightly halting breton - it had its advantages to be from the bask country with its celtic origins, the bask language had enough in common with the breton to have him learn it easily. This was one more reason why he felt quite at home here in Saint Malo, he was, unlike other spanish ships, welcomed with a sort of cautious friendliness, that seemed to sense familiarity just around the corner.

"It's been a while", Pierre replied calmly, taking his pipe again, chewing carefully on it. "Got your orders, though."

Castellano smiled.  
"I had hoped as much."

Pierre blew out some smoke from the corner of his mouth.  
"Pay?"

"You won't be disappointed", Castellano promised.

Pierre nodded and produced, after some fuss, from his pocked a large key, got to his feet with all the bearings of an old man, to turn towards the storage building behind him. He opened it and bid Castellano enter, lighting a torch at the entrance so that he might see the contents for himself.

The spanish captain smiled...

* * *

Juan Marcellis sighed inwardly as he saw Castellano striding purposefully onto the ship and knew, that he was in for a rough night. Evening had fallen, and it was with the cover of darkness, that the captain would complete this latest deal of his, and as always, this meant a lot of work for the crew.

Not, that he was not satisfied by what he saw. Standing at the docks, being brought out already by the part of the crew that had been on land all day, were ten cannons of the newest making, light, yet strong, sure in aim, the dernier cri of the french forgeries. He had battled them once, in a brawl with a pirate ship that had raided a french cruiser before, and it had not been pretty. They had been, in fact, by far superior to their own, and Castellano, the captain that he was, had decided never to get on the wrong side of one of those again.

Marcellis wondered, what his superiors back in Spain would have thought, had they known that right now, the Captain was swapping his spanish cannons for french ones, being convinced of their superiority, but finally, he had to conclude, that probably Castellano did not care. He was a very peculiar man following his own, very peculiar ideas.

Marcellis guessed, that they were paying for the cannons with the sugar from the colonies, that they were carrying in the belly of their ship, sugar, that had fallen into their hands as a pay for a couple of family members of some mexican colonist, that they had, out of pure philantrophy, brought over the ocean when they were crossing over from Spain half a year  
back, and he was proved right when the captain commanded him to bring up the supplies.

The work was done quickly and silently. Only two hours into their labour came a group of three that Marcellis had never seen before, but they strode confidently towards the captain and began negotiations with him.

Before the sun had risen to the sky, their old cannons had been sold, and with profit, to a group of local corsars and had, apparently, vanished from the face of this earth.

* * *

He came without notice, as he always did, and Marie would not have expected it otherwise. She never knew when to expect him, and he had, after their second meeting, told her with a slight smile, that this was his intention, to keep her awake and on the edge.

His smile had made her forgive anything.

Marie was no fool, at least not great enough a fool not to know, that she was only a welcome distraction for him. A girl in every port, this was what they said about sailors, and she had spent her whole life in this seaside town, so she knew well about this, but she did not care.

Life was lonely for a widow that had lost her husband early to the sea, but that status also gave her a bit of freedom that she had not known before. As long as she did not overindulge, as long as there was no child involved, no one would raise so much as an eyebrow at the dark, tall captain that, at times stepped by at her cottage.

She was sleeping, when he came, two hours before dawn, waking her softly.

She knew, that he loved to do this, and she did not care. She had long decided to take from this what she could, because he was sure he would do the same.

The next hours were darkness and sensations, and when the town as awakening, she still slept soundly in his arms...

"How long can you stay?" Marie asked, when they were at last sitting at her small kitchen table.

"I don't know yet", Fernando, replied, smoothly, "although I would say, not as long as I would like."

Marie smiled sadly. "You always say that."

"And always it is true", did Fernando not fail that opportunity at a grand gesture.

Marie blushed and busied herself at the stove, while Fernando glanced around.

"Marie, my dear, I hate to bring this upon you but..." She turned, a questioning look in her eyes, and he continued, knowing quite well that she already had an idea on what he wanted. "You could not, by any coincidence talk to your brother once more for me?"

She smiled.

"Of course, Fernando. What is it?"

"There will be a ship coming, soon, as far as I know, and I would not like that ship to were too...", he coughed, "thoroughly searched. In fact, it will be coming at night, and I would prefer that it would go unhindered just until it anchors in the port.

Marie frowned.

"Nothing dangerous, I hope..."

"Of course not, my dove", Fernando replied, smiling. "There is no need for worry at all."

The 'Bartholomew' was off course. Quite intentionally, of course, for it was quite difficult to end up in the breton port of Saint Malo, when one was, in fact, headed for the Caribbean sea, but those who did not know about their change of course were not competent enough in naval matters to notice, and, in addition to that, were currently sleeping soundly below the deck.

Silently, the ship glided towards the rough coast, approaching the cliffs of Saint Malo without being disturbed by the watch that was patrolling the entrance to the port.

Silently, the anchor was lowered and the ship waited, a dark shadow in the darkness, until from the docks a small boat was setting out towards them, rowing over the blackened sea before reaching the 'Bartholomew', two figures climbing up the rope ladder onto the deck.

The passengers were awakened by a tall, dark figure entering.

"Good evening Miss Swann... Mister Turner."


	51. The janus head

**Chapter 50**

**The janus head**

The images in the bowl were swirling, as the small streaks of red dissipated into nothingness, but she had seen enough. The power of the blood focus was waning, as she had felt, but she would not need it any more.

The girl had grown. And she was, now, leaving her own traces in untouched snow.

The pattern was forming, becoming clearer through the mist.

She smiled.

A visitor was coming. Just as she expected.

"No."

She wedged the word out between thoughts, between possibilities, a new, thin thread adding up to the tapestry. The pattern was evolving, slowly, the dance gaining momentum, the subjects finding their own step.

It was hard to acknowledge, that she, who had come to her, did not understand yet, when it was so obvious.

"What do you mean, no?"

The voice was fierce, defiant, a song of the proud, another charm in the making, a powerful token, just like the dreams of the man she was now standing up for.

She caught the thought by her finger to preserve it for later, to tug it together with the strand of that jet black hair of hers, that she was keeping.

"He was there doing what you told him to do!"

She picked up a shell, carefully, anchoring thought to matter, another voice in the song. The visitor was woven, without knowing.

"Yes", she stated the obvious, maybe to gain time, maybe just because there was nothing else to say.

"And...?"

The voice was tingled with impatience. She could not see that her visitor was leaning forward to glare at her, and the glare was lost, because she did not acknowledge it.

But she did not need it to feel the posture.

Stubborn... proud... strong charms they were. She appreciated it and appreciated their power. Without this song, the rhythm would surely falter.

"Susannah", she said, by way of explanation."

"Yeah, I would very much like to know where she is, actually. I would have thought she was interested in the outcome too!"

She felt a vague tingle of annoyance. Annoyance, for having to explain the obvious, for, unlike herself, they would not see the pattern, like a child, peeping through the window at a large tapestry, but seeing only a fragment of it.

"She is in Tortuga."

She forced herself to withdraw, to see, instead of watching, to take in the presence of her visitor, a fierce woman of mulatto origin, dark eyes flashing in anger, and, right before her eyes, first in confusion, then in something, that remotely resembled acceptance.

Such an open display... she marveled at it.

"Tortuga", she echoed, doubtfully.

The witch woman smiled.

"The most peculiar of towns, isn't it?"

* * *

It had all the makings of a true nightmare.

Jack Sparrow blinked away the pouring rain, trying to discern something beyond the island, but it was to no avail. Black clouds were looming all around him, and a sharp wind, turning every few minutes, blew through his clothes, as if there were nothing to hinder it.

He had been stuck on this island for two days straight now and was, on the whole, thoroughly fed up with it. Not, that it was the first time, that he found himself in this position.

Barbossa, wherever his wretched soul might be now, had been kind enough to abandon him not only once, but twice, on the same charming little island – charming meaning that it had been used as a storage place for a couple of rum smugglers. That had made his stay there much more pleasant than the one on this island, where, to his extreme misfortune, not a single drop of rum was to be found.

The weather was worse, in addition to that.

The storm had raged on with untamed power, and after a thorough expedition over the small island he had to admit, that it was, indeed all around him, seemingly even worse out on the sea than here with him.

Half a day into his imprisonment, he saw the shadow moving for the first time. Something was stirring in the towering clouds outside the island, now north, then south, never coming close enough to be discernible, but Jack, even though he loathed to admit it, was quite certain about what it was, that was lurking just outside his view.

The hounds of Crystabella Halvery were still on his track.

And for lack of a better idea, he really hoped, that Tia Dalma, who usually left a few tricks unsaid, had something up her sleeve for a situation like this one. He was, at least at the moment, not sure how he would sort himself out of this particular fix.

And there was another point that made this imprisonment, compared to those he had endured before, infinitely more annoying – there was the matter of his companion.

Last time, that he had found himself on an island with a young woman, he had, on the whole, rather enjoyed it – Elizabeth Swann, if anything, made up for interesting company - but this time was totally different.

Ever since he had reached land, Leonora Halvery had remained in a state of unresponsive silence, asleep, apparently, deeply, beyond all of his efforts to wake her. And he had tried, first out of concern, then, out of boredom, and last, out of fear, because he was running out of ideas to sort himself out of this situation.

None of this had worked, even though he was forced to conclude that even in her slumber, she seemed to realize some of what was going on around her. At least, she seemed to know perfectly well, when he was sleeping.

After only barely preventing her escape, he had tied her to a palm tree, and she was sitting awkwardly slumped up against the trunk ever since, which did not seem to prevent her from sleeping, though.

Yet he was certain, that, when he curled up to sleep, she was awake, for there were marks of struggle against the bonds, when he woke up again, but until now, she had not managed to get free yet.

Still Jack did not like the idea of her being awake – and capable of doing anything – and potentially hostile – while he was in no condition to defend himself.

All in all, a situation to put him thoroughly on the edge.

* * *

It was chartered territory. Movements, so well known, that there was comfort in them. He could loose himself to it, if he allowed it. Compass and bow, directions and passages, all neatly layed out in ink and parchment. There was security in the rules of seamanship.

Even though, now, he was fighting insurmountable odds. The information that he had to go on where preciously poor. A thin line connected Port Royal with the island of Tia Dalma, his accurate handwriting illustrating the distance, estimated sailing times, and with the bow, he diverted from the line, trying to find possible locations for Jack Sparrow to land.

It was too familiar a task to remember the utter atrocity of what he was doing.

But despite all his skill, the area they would have to search, was too large.

"Considering favorable winds...", he murmured, squinting his eyes and looking at a group of tiny dots that showed yet another archipele.

"Pardon?"

He flinched. In his reverie, he had forgotten, that she still was there, and was, all of a sudden, forced to marvel at her patience. He was unsure how much time he had spent bent over the charts, but it was no inconsiderable span, and yet she showed no signs of boredom or impatience, watching him, as if she had just sat down where she was now, some meters away from him, in a chair, calmly. Irrationally, he felt once more remembered to when Maria Delanney had applied the finishing touches to his new dress uniform, Susannah standing in the back, alert, motionless, patient, always watching.

Maybe she was not so wrong in proclaiming herself a ghost.

He allowed himself a thin-lipped smile.

"Nothing."

And he turned back to the chart.

It was, of course, not what he was used to by the standart of the Navy, but considering what place this was, they could be called quite fortunate, that, after a day's search, they had found someone who was able to sell them a map of the waters. It had come as some measure of relief to him, that during their search he had discovered, that Susannah was by no means as comfortable around this place, as she would have him believe. She moved around with the same caution that she was treated – the superstition of sailors, he reasoned, was at times pathetic – and during a few moments he had caught up a glitter of fear in her dark eyes, hidden well, but not well enough.

Quickly as she seemed to have adapted, she was nowhere near as certain as she would want to be.

It was, on the whole, a comforting thought.

Another revelation of the day had lain in the fact, that she, apparently, did not enjoy her surroundings at all. She had been quite plain about this – reasonably surprised at his false perception of her, but as if she had remembered, that revealing something about herself was nothing short of indecent, she had closed up again, but it was still comforting to know, that she was about as keen on staying in Tortuga that he was.

But she bend to what she deemed necessity, and that, of all things, was something that he could accept.

"I am not sure that this will lead to a solution", he said, at length, after having encircled a couple of islands more. "There are too many."

She did not reply at first, only the rustling of cloth told him, that she had reacted at all, moving to step closer to him. And then she was standing at his side, looking at the chart with a vague look of confusion on her pale features.

"I... see", she said, obviously trying to sound more confident than she felt."This is bad..."

She had clenched her hands into fists, knuckles turning white. For a wild instance, he hoped to be able to do anything to help her.

* * *

"Who's that?" Maroo mouthed soundlessly, perched outside the hut, peeking in through a window, but all that he got from Anamaria was a vague shrug and a handwave, telling him to retreat.They went back to a couple of barrels, standing next to the shore, at times serving Susannah as makeshift chairs, whenever she felt compelled to – in a bow to her old Port Royal habits – work outside instead of in the cabin.

"What on earth is she doing in there?" the sailor took up his thought, his voice tingled with impatience. Anamaria pursed her lips. The fact, that it was now on her shoulders, that the responsibility lay, weighed more heavily on her than she would have liked to admit

"Looking at a map, obviously." she said, with a small smug smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"But why?"

She shrugged, just as she had done standing at the window.

"Maybe she already knows?"

Maroos eyes grew round, the old sailor's superstition gaining ground again. Anamaria's smile grew wider.

"But since we don't want to stay rooted here, how about just going to meet an old friend?"

In retrospective, James thought that he should maybe have seen it coming. It was apparent, that despite her nature Susannah Delanney had long since began to tangle in the various webs of Tortuga, and he, maybe more than anybody else, knew what this meant. So he should not have been surprised at the unexpected visitor, that, after knocking once, stormed into the small cabin of the seamstress, but it took him completely by surprise, unaware.

In the light of circumstances, as he stood there, rooted on the spot and staring at the two people stumbling into the room, it was quite fortunate that Susannah was not nearly as surprised as he was, and she started to act at once.

In a way, this was the situation he had feared since he had first set foot on Tortuga – of meeting someone he had battled against, of meeting someone, that might know, who he was. It was only after some time, that he realized, that they didn't.

This in itself was strange, since he knew quite well, who he was up against, Anamaria, who had been, in a way, responsible for the loss of the Interceptor – sharing, granted, this guilt with Turner, Sparrow and the Black Captain Barbossa – harpy of a woman and carrying a very ill reputation, that he had even heard of before the whole Sparrow incident.

He tensed, fists clenched, prepared to fight, but at the moment, she ignored him altogether, storming to Susannah, who, a timid smile on her face, seemed to be welcoming her.

"I had h...", the young seamstress stopped whatever she had wanted to say for something better, as if remembering habits that had not yet sunk in to flesh and bone. "... thought that you would come."

"No need for much of a seeress for that, aye?"

Susannah shrugged, spreading out her hands in a gesture of apology. Judging from her demeanor, Norrington guessed, that she was torn between obvious sympathy for the woman and a reserved timidity, that seemed so characteristic of her. He refrained from the almost overwhelming urge to step between the two women to protect Susannah.

"It went wrong", Susannah said, in a statement, not a question, and Anamaria, if she was surprised, did not show it.

"Yeah, it did." She shot a suspicious glance in the direction of James, who found it in himself to raise an eyebrow at the questioning glance, seemingly calm, while he was vibrating with tension. Susannah looked at him, and for a moment he was sure to have seen a pleading note in her eyes, before she answered the unspoken question.

"That's James Corret. He's okay."

The easy speech seemed wrong to him, coming from her lips, but he understood immediately and hinted a bow, tipping against his forehead for the lack of a hat.

"My pleasure", he replied, calmly.

Anamaria did not seem convinced at all, turning her gaze towards Susannah again.

"Lucilla, this is really bad. Really really bad. I have been there, when..." She shivered at the memory of Crystabella's voice, the aura of power, of strength radiating from her. "We cannot trust anyone, unless..."

"Trust me, Anamaria." There was a beseechign tone in Susannah's voice, and he felt odd, being talked about without being included, as if he were invisible, or not even there at all. "He will help me, believe me. I know it..."

The two women stood, watched by him as well as by the black pirate that had accompanied Anamaria to the cabin, waiting for a decision as seconds ticked by.

Finally, Anamaria nodded.

"If you say so..."

"I need to know, what has happened." Susannah had not changed the tone, only the intensity, and the urgency of her gaze, even though he was not subject to it, ran a shiver down his spine. "In detail. Then we can decide what will happen."

It did not make a good story, at least not, from what James considered his standards in this business. The news of someone possessing the utter nerve to break into the Governor's residence, the state Port Royal was apparently in, and finally, the second burglar into the mansion that night, the navy officer that had payed dearly for his curiosity and initiative. His fingers, safely hidden beneath the table, began to tremble, clenching and unclenching, as Anamaria – to her credit she sounded quite shaken by the whole incident as well – recounted the fateful evening in the Governor's residence a few nights ago. It was, of course, out of question to ask for details, but Susannah, after a quick, almost imperceptive glance in his direction, asked for a description of the navy officer, and the accuracy of Anamaria's words, did not leave any choice in that matter.

Gillette.

Gillette was dead.

The rest of her report was a blur, but most of it, he had heard – and guessed – already from Susannah's words, including the fact, that Jack Sparrow was now again stuck on a small island, waiting for some haywire plan to be able to escape from this, once more.

Apparently, this time, they were the plan.

Susannah listened, intently, her hands crossed under her chin, elbows propped up on the table, full awareness concentrated on Anamaria, hardly even blinking. Only when he found the strength to follow the conversation again, he realized how much she had paled

"Tia Dalma sent you to me", she asked, very quietly, very seriously. Anamaria shrugged, a helpless smile on her features. She seemed to feel slightly uncomfortable. Susannah closed her eyes.

"I see", she replied, keeping her voice neutral. "Did she say anything beyond this?"

Anamaria frowned.

"No...", she replied, wondering. "Only that you would know."

Susannah bowed her head, hiding her face from Anamaria for a moment, and James did distinctively not like the wane smile dancing around her lips, but before he could decide on something to do, Susannah got up to look at the small cupboard behind her table, littered with various, indistinguishable items.

"So, as far as you know, Crystabella Halvery's hounds are circling the island that Jack fled upon, and we have to free him from there..."

She nodded, as if to herself, and Anamaria did not answer, since the seamstress was very clearly not expecting a reply. For a moment, she stared blankly at her hands, and then, coming to a decision, nodded.

"Very well", she said. "The evening tide. I will come. And so will he."

For a moment, James sensed the surprise that he felt creeping upon his features, but he schooled his expression carefully. He could not tell, what Susannah had in mind, and he was not sure that he liked this utter loss of control, but he was a tactician enough to understand, that discussing this in this very moment would prove to be a very unwise idea.

Anamaria seemed to be surprised, too, her gaze wandering to him suspiciously, eyes narrowed in distrust, but finally, without a word being passed between the two women, she seemed to come to a decision of her own and nodded.

"Fine. I'll prepare the Pearl. Anything you need?"

Susannah thoughtfully placed her fingertips against each other.

"I think... no. I think I will bring what I need."

* * *

"It may seem a trifle forward of me", James Norrington said, with forced calm, as Susannah sank onto her chair, staring blankly before her, "and I quite frankly had hoped, that I would never have to say this, but do you think that was quite wise?"

A pale smile lighted Susannah's features.

"No", she said, sadly. "But I did not see any choice."

"Yes, but how much of an option is that?" He stepped up towards her, propping himself on the table to look at her. Green eyes met dark ones, and he found it surprisingly difficult to let go.

"I hate to point out the downsides of this plan to you. Point the first is, that, if the look you gave that woman is anything to go by, you do not know what you will do to get us through the storm, despite what... Tia Dalma ... said."

Susannah nodded affirmatively, and he appreciated, that she did not try to lie.

"Second, I may be wrong... but by now it might well be that it is not only Crystabella's hounds that we are facing, right?"

He felt safer, somehow, now, that it was down to tactics, to evaluations of strength and possibilities, a part, that came natural to him, and that even in the hours before, when he had been standing over the map, Susannah had given to him willingly.

"It is quite probable", she answered his question quietly. "I can not tell for sure."

"Third, although this may seem a trifle egoistic, but have you forgotten who I am?" He shook his head. "None of them has recognized me yet, but you can be sure, Sparrow will. And then, my life is not worth a penny."

Her lips quirked, and she blinked, raising her eyebrows almost wrily.

"So this will ameliorate your situation compared to Tortuga."

He stared at her blankly, wondering whether she had tried to offend him, when her lips quirked, almost invisibly, and he realized, with utmost astonishment, that she had actually tried a joke. More at that fact than at the joke itself he could not help to smile slightly, and he bowed his head to acknowledge her words.

"Point taken, Miss Delanney."

"Jack knows about the triangulums, Commodore", she said. "He will understand."

"Understanding, Miss Delanney, is, as I thought you know, something that is well beyond the capabilities of Mister Sparrow", he replied, not without acid in his voice.

"Maybe." Susannah got up again to step into the doorframe, looking out at the calm sea. "But he is afraid of Tia Dalma", she added. "And that will make the difference." She leaned against the wood, supporting her head as if tired. And when she continued to speak, her voice had taken on a completely different tone. She sounded tired, pained, tenseness underlying that he was at loss to explain.

"I know what I am asking. And there is not much that I can say in my favor. So I will be honest."

She stared out, her back turned to him, and he could very well understand, that honesty was so much easier when not looking into the other's eyes.

"If you do not come with us, I think I will fail."

Convinced fatality in her voice. Little he knew about the rules and limitations of her strange gift, but one thing he was sure about – it was a gift that fed on confidence. If her confidence was lacking, she was sure not to succeed. And yet, the question left his lips before he was able to hinder it, his voice sounding more rough than it should have, parchment over stone.

"Why?"

Her fingers, hanging down loosely, twitched, curling into fists, then releasing again.

"Because you are part of the charm", she said. "That is the first part of the truth." She took a deep breath. "And because I am surrounded by dragons. I cannot trust Tia Dalma, for I am nothing but her tool. I cannot trust Jack Sparrow, for reasons you know, I cannot even trust Anamaria because she is like him. But..." her voice dropped off to a mere whisper, and he had to strain himself to hear her words. "... I trust you."

A thousand questions, and none of them were of importance. He steadied himself on the table, discreetly, her last words echoing in his ears. Such a simple statement.

For a second, he wished, she would have said them watching him.

But he was not sure he would have been able to hold her gaze.


	52. Beyound the veil

**Chapter 51**

**Beyound the veil**

„The secret will not remain one as long as you hope, Miss Delanney."

His voice was impassive, as was his face, only his eyes, staring out at the scenery below, betrayed something close to mild irritation. The seamstress frowned, not taking her eyes from what they were watching.

„I beg your pardon?"

James waved his hand at one of the sailors, who, well below them and some twenty meters away, was overseeing the loading of supplies into the belly of the black ship.

„That is Gibbs. He has served under me on the Swann's voyage back from England. If your friend Anamaria does not recognize me, he certainly will."

Susannah turned to measure him with her gaze. The man standing next to her, dressed in an old – yet clean – brown coat, the vest underneath of simple cut and cloth, had not much to do with the grand navy officer in his white wig, but she had to admit, the eyes were the same, and so was the stern expression on his face. Frowning, she measured him, wondering, what could be done to further change his appearance – she considered a hat, a bandana, even briefly, with an inward smile, considered khol, that Jack Sparrow seemed so infinitely fond of, but dismissed it again in the same moment.

There was nothing to be done – at least, nothing that he would agree to – or that she would have even dared to call upon him. She frowned, softly, following her thoughts. So, safety had to come from a different place. This Mister Gibbs had to be persuaded to somehow keep silent about the identity of her companion, especially considering the fact, that most of the crew members would not take the presence of their nemesis lightly. A pawn was needed, of some kind.

He seemed to be a trifle uneasy under her gaze and shuffled, flinched, and thus brought her to avert her eyes at last.

„This Mister Gibbs", she said, thoughtfully, turning her gaze back to the activity below. „What kind of person is he?"

Norrington searched his memory.

„I have not known him to be a very trustworthy man. He gives in much to gossip, instead of doing his work as commanded. I cannot say that I was surprised by his turn to piracy. Beyound that he is superstitios…", he hesitated, „even for a… sailor."

He turned his gaze towards her again, and she saw a faint question in his eyes. She was surprised he was even considering it. Maybe,the time on Tortuga had begun to wear on him too.

Susannah did not like this idea any more than he did. She knew very well, that the game of her dangerous tutor included lying, manipulating and betraying other people. She herself had never liked this, yet maybe it was the magic itself, that called forth opportunities – and lacks of choices. She had indeed become quite good at betraying, even though it was no capability that she was proud of.

This story made demons of them all…

„It's a good thing, then", she said, a little smile touching her lips, that found ist answer in his eyes, „that I do merit the reputation I have."

„I figure I do not want to know what you will be doing?"

„No", she said firmly, with conviction. He was tainted enough already by this spiral, it was no use adding up to this burden by unloading her own. Susannah understood about the fine laws of these charms, if nothing else, then from the stories of her mother, of old.

In a ring, every person has its own weave.

Sometimes, it does well not to mix.

Tia Dalma would have heartily agreed to this.

* * *

She stepped up the gangway carrying her bundle over her shoulders, looking around curiously as if seeing it for the first time, in the very attentive gaze that Susannah Delanney exhibited at times, and she was thoroughly unconscious of it. She nodded, quite absently, to one or two sailors that she knew, her step sure, but trailing, as she reentered the ship, that had taken her on a very strange journey.

The mood was different, of sorts. When last time, people had been confused, maybe tingled with worry, now she felt the looks upon her, in a mixture of hope, distrust and fear. She did not know, what Anamaria had told them, but it must have been not too far away from the truth.

The expectations were weights of tons on her shoulders. Susannah had always hated to be the center of attention. But his was worse. Tia Dalma was right, when she had said, that with tehe gift came a responsibility unwanted. But she had said more.

‚Eet brings ye away from da other people, Sanna. Do bee like we are meens to be lonely. Closeness is luxury, and pain een eetself.'

She had protested, timidly, and there had been a sadness in the older woman's eyes.

‚Ye are young. Ye will see, later on.'

For the first time, she understood, what Tia Dalma had meant. The reputation that she had so carefully crafted was now turning on her, like a charm eating its own weavers. It was a protection, but for those around her, she was the inexplicable, the riddle, but also the answer to a question – even though she felt preciously unfit for this. The game of make-believe, however, had wrung its claws around her carefully. There was, indeed, no way out.

The cool breeze felt strange on her bare hands. The gloves were hidden in her bundle, up on top so she could reach them, once this was over, but what she wanted to do, she could not do with them. The crew of the Pearl, and especially Joshamee Gibbs, knew her too well for that.

Gibbs…

She forced her thoughts into coherent trails. She had a task to complete.

He was standing near the bow, surveying the setting of the sails, occasionally crying out to one of the men climbing in the mast, terms and words that meant nothing to her. With a smile on her face she turned towards him, waiting for him to notice her.

The plan had been to stumble, just while standing before him, and after dropping her bundle, clinging to him to regain her footing. She was not sure, that she could indeed fake one of her fits, but it was the best idea she had, or, in other words, it was her only one. She had long thought about what she wanted to say and decided on something cryptic enough, that he might swallow it, but open enough for him to understand what she was meaning.

She never got as far as that, though.

She managed the trip quite gracefully, purposefully stepping on the hem of her skirt, and the rest came along all by itself, the stumble, the loss of equilibrium, the bundle falling to the floor.

Her hands found his shoulders.

And she felt the surge.

Instinctively, she turned against it, the entirety of her frail form stemming itself against the onslaughtering storm, trying to regain her footing, her control of the situation. She had wanted to play with the fire, to dance with the hurricane, but now it had come and swallowed her whole. She felt herself trembling, felt herself stiffening, as the ship blended in with the pictures, and Susannah was lost.

The storm was raging around them and she ran. The ship tossed from one side to the other, and she felt, despairing, the closeness of the very enemy she feared so much. She had to get there in time, or all would be lost.

The ship rolled, and she slipped, sliding down the rail towards the black water, rain clouding her vision. Her hands grasped for a rope, with all her might trying to reach the door again, so far that she could hardly see it, the door, that led to the belly of the ship, where the water was mounting higher, higher, until the whole brigg would finally be filled with water, and all would be lost.

A high-pitched laugh travelled over the sea and tore her insides apart in its wake. Water washed over her, and she felt herself sliding, sliding, water on her face and in her lungs and then…

… she desperately gasped for air, the evening sun burning with the salt in her eyes.

„Lucilla!" Someone shook her, hard, and she felt the hard deck below her.

Only slowly, she returned to wakefulness.

Against the reddening light, she saw Gibbs bowed over her, his voice full of concern that she could not see in his shadowed features. He shook her, almost violently, only stopping, when he found her eyes open.

She tried to focus.

„What did I say?"

A remnant of a memory of her plan, and she found it within herself to follow the shreds of it. Maybe she had said something that could be used, could be wrought, that could, finally, serve to her purpose. Already her thoughts were flying, as Gibbs hesitated before speaking.

„A very strange thing, to be true. You said, that it would bet the death of us, if I reveal his secret."

Susannah blinked, as she digested the information. Slowly, she paled. And even more slowly, she rose to take the chance.

„Yes…", she whispered, her throat hoarse, trying to take on the same detached manner that she, so often, had adapted on Tortuga. „The man, who is coming with me. I have seen it…"

Gibbs frowned, and his gaze glided over to the gangway. The tide was coming in, and so was their last passenger. And indeed, something about the way he was walking did strike a chord…

* * *

James Norrington had to admit, that in a way, he had been dreaming of this moment for long. To set foot on the Black Pearl, the dreaded ship, the last of the great pirate vessels in the Caribbean, had been indeed one of his prized goals. However, now, the circumstances were completely changed, though.

His bundle safely hidden down in the belly of the ship – it had been quite some time since he had slept in crew's quarters, but he was quite sure he could, if indeed necessary, do this again for a night or two – nobody seemed to bother him for the moment, and he was free to roam the ship.

It was beautiful, in its own way, a fine work of craftsmanship, and it obviously, despite some minor injuries, in good shape. It was no surprise, that the Pearl had outrun him more than once – she was a fine ship, doubtless.

Dusk was upon them and the sky, colored red, painted the sea a bloody hue. How befitting, he thought, for the place there were in.

Whatever Susannah had told his former subordinate, it seemed to have worked. Joshamee Gibbs avoided him, throwing him glances in equal measures scared and angry, when no one was looking, but there had been no conversation yet, and he doubted, that there would be.

The crew of the Pearl was better organized than he would have thought. Having had to deal with pirates all of his life, he had nevertheless always imagined life on a renegate ship to be some sort of anarchy, but now, he had to admit, that at least here, it was not. Anamaria, the mulatto woman, kept a tight regime in the absence of Sparrow, admittedly formidable in the way she found nothing wrong in yelling at men many years her senior. Gibbs, much as he had been on the voyage from England a lifetime ago, mediated between her and the crew in a rough, yet friendly manner.

As for himself, he was obviously granted a bit of the same respect that Susannah was payed, having come aboard on her bidding and invitation, which granted him the aboard a ship yet unknown leisure of having nothing to do except to look around.

Almost automatically, he estimated the strengths of the Pearl, seeing her navigate as they sailed towards where the ship had lost its captain. If nothing else, it might help him further on, when he was facing her from across the waters again.

If this would ever come to pass.

„To be frank, I am not happy about you being here."

The voice was hard, cool, and very much like Anamaria, from all that he had seen from her up to now. He turned towards her after a moment of collecting his thoughts. He did not particularly feel like sparring, however, she left no choice to him.

Her arms were folded in front of her, and she watched him defensively, a hat placed atop her black hair, just like the day when he had seen her and Susannah before he lost the Dauntless.

Pain was suppressed in the twinkle of an eye.

„I regret to hear this", he replied, as neutrally as he could. „I assume there is nothing I can do to quench your distrust?"

She squinted her eyes, and for a moment, he wondered, why he was even allowing her to question him so. But there was not much of a Commodore in him, at the moment.

„Who are you really?" Anamaria asked. „Where do you know Susannah from?"

Suddenly, he was very glad, that the seeress hat insisted on making up a believable story that they would both tell. He did not like lying, and thus they had settled to the closest thing to the truth that they dared, and thus he was not unprepared for the question.

„My name is James Corret", he therefore said, thoroughly annoyed, not even having to feign it. „You might think of me as an old acquaintance of… Lucilla's from where she lived before. Our father's knew each other, and so do we."

„From where she lived before", Anamaria mused. „Where is that?"

For a moment he thought of revealing the truth, but found it unwise later on. Again, he decided to play on Susannah's reputation.

„She might have had her reasons for not telling you. I am sure you will understand that I have neither reason nor will to displease her."

For a moment he was not sure that she was buying it, but in the end, apparently she did.

„Just so, that there are no misunderstandings", she said. „Point the first: I do not know you, I do not trust you, and if it were for me to decide you would be anywhere but here at the moment, but Lucilla trusts you and I take her word for it. Point the second: I will be watching you closely. I know as well as anyone, that Jack Sparrow is a lousy guy, but still, no one deserves the fix he's in and we will have to bring him out of it one way or other. Either you are with us in this, or we give you a small boat to row back ashore. Point the third: From where we are going there might be no returning. You better consider this, in case you have any more pressing engagements. And point the fourth: She may not be one of us, but Lucilla, unlike you, is okay. I would take it very badly, if something would happen to her."

Now he could barely hide his amusement at the fierceness of the woman. A corner of his mouth twitched, only slightly, before answering.

„Understood, Milady."

He did not quite manage to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, and she noticed it, but left it uncommented. Instead, she turned on her heels and stalked away, her steps on the rolling deck as sure as any sailor's.

* * *

Night had fallen, and all was quiet, but there was no way that he would get any sleep now. They were still making speed, even though part of the crew was sleeping, and another part was trying to ease away the fear with a circulating bottle of rum.

All was quiet at the bow now, and this was exactly where he was looking for her. If there was anything he had, by now, learned about Susannah Delanney, then it was, that, left to her own devices, she would look for solitude.

A solitude he was planning on breaking. He told himself, that it was mainly to gain some more information, but part of him knew, that this was not quite the truth.

She was sitting at the bow on the rail, hands wrapped around a rope so that she would not fall, and gazed into the water, one foot dangling down, the other propped up on the rail. But this time she took notice of him, turning around with the faintest of smiles.

„Mister Corret…" A hint of friendly jest seemed to color her voice, as she called him by his invented name, turning around far enough to be able to face him. He stepped up to her, looking out to the sea.

„Shouldn't you be abed at this hour?" he asked. „I do not exactly know where we are going, but from the estimations I figure, it will take us at least until morning to get there."

„There will be no morning", Susannah replied, cryptically, and as he looked at her, frowning quizzically, she shrugged. „Not for us." She stretched out a thin arm, pointing to the horizon, where indeed, clouds were gathering, far off still, but already obscuring the stars in the distance. „There", she said.

„Already?" he frowned at the phenomenom.

„It has grown, I think", she said, not without unease. „It is waiting…"

„For us?" he asked, his elbows propped up on the rail, his face in the wind, taking comfort in trusted and familiar surroundings. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head. Her long strands, unbound, toy to the wind, fled out behind both of them, occasionally touching his shoulders, and he hardly could conceal the jumping it forced, when it happened the first time.

There was a strange, careless intimacy in this surrounding.

„For her", Susannah explained, and the paleness of her mouth spoke volumes of how much she dreaded seeing her nemesis again.

„Will she be there?"

She shrugged, , her eyes squinted, as if she tried to find the answer to the question far off in the distance.

„I do not know. I fear so."

Silence settled between them. James watched her, thoughtfully, her dark eyes, the slight frown burrowing between her brows. He felt uneasy about the coming day, the ship they were sailing, the quest they were on, the lack of a true plan.

„What will we do once we get there?"

„Try and get through to Sparrow, of course", Susannah replied, as if she were talking about an afternoon stroll. He snorted, before he could prevent himself from it, shaking his head at this – indeed – very piratey attitude. To first go, and then make up some plan, as they strolled along. This was, in part, what had driven the pirates into his traps.

He would have thought better of Susannah. But before he could comment on this, she continued, much more thoughtful, as if she had been able to read his mind, or at least correctly guess what he was thinking.

„I wish I knew what happened the last time. I was… not myself when they came, and there was something I have done, but neither can I explain… nor conjure it up for the moment. I am beyound what I knew then, now, since I know what we are up against, and I was taught about the ways to weave a spell, but…" She shrugged. „I still have very little command over all of this."

He nodded, even though he did not exactly like what he heard. Silence settled in once more as he thought upon her words, upon the madness of this all, the utter lunacy, that found the scourge of the Caribbean aboard a pirate ship, listening to the ramblings of a woman at least half mad. But then, the alternatives were even less appealing, and this was all, that at the moment was left of his life.

Something was hanging between them that weighed tons.

„At the very least", he answered, at length, „your idea concerning Mister Gibbs was a splendid success. Whatever you chose to tell him kept him aback quite well."

„This had nothing to do with chosing, though", she replied, with another shrug.

He digested this information, and it took a moment for him to understand. Her gift was a dragon, running wild, and about the most unreliable thing he had ever placed his faith in. He must, he decided, be mad or delirious.

This was an easier explanation than the strange urge, that drew him to Susannah.

„What did you see?"

She told him, in dry, short words, of her vision aboard the Pearl, without once looking at him, her peculiar eyes measuring the miles between them and their doom. He felt it difficult to respond, remote as she seemed.

„This is disturbing", he replied, finally, for the lack of anything else to say. She smiled sadly.

„Indeed."

The water lapped lazily against the wall of the ship deep below him. It was, at the moment, hard to believe in the menace posed by the clouds on the horizont.

„I'm scared, James."

For a moment, he thought, he had imagined her words, the epitome of impropriety, and she had, in her own queer way, always tried not to overstep. Calling him by his first name was certainly a break with her habits, especially in the light of the fact, that she had, up to here, always tried to call him by his old title. It would have fitted well within what he considered being his delusions, but something about her posture, the hunched shoulders maybe, ort he fact that she was blinking a trifle to quickly, made him doubt.

For the life of him, he could not think of something to say.

„How do you do it?" she continued, still softly, but now more distinguishable, turning towards him. Her look was open, bereft of all shyness, a closeness, that she had, at times, already displayed, but that always seemed to take him by surprise.

He felt a shiver running down her spine, his stomach contracting with unease, for lack of a better word for it.

„How do you walk into battle? The Navy, I mean…" She shook her head, not understanding. „How do you face the fear? The knowledge, that tomorrow can bring death?" There was a tingle of desperation in her voice, of wonder also. „I do not understand it. I try… to be… strong, but I cannot shake it."

She was a kaleidoscope. Her shyness, rivalled by an almost bluntly open behavior right afterwards was very difficult to meet. When for hours she had not been able to meet his eye, she would suddenly surprise him with a gaze of pure intensity, of a curiosity that was well beyound what propriety allowed, without even a blink of unease, despite her care considering these matters at other times.

„You get used to it", he heard himself saying, his own voice alien to him. „Every sailor does, after a time. Some believe in ghosts and klabautermen. Some drink. Some pray."

„And you?"

Under scrutiny again, a frown on a pale forehead. He felt like recoiling, sneering back something about nosing in other peoples business into her face, but for all of him, he would not find the words. They say, that there is a very special magic in honesty, and there surely was in the gaze that held him now. As if she were at once despairing and forgiving. Then, maybe she was. He smiled, hardly visible.

„I would like to think, that my estimation on the upcoming situation and my confidence in what I have is better than any of these", he replied, with caution, and she continued to watch him, as if this answer carried a promise of more in itself.

Under her gaze, it did.

„When I was on my first voyages, long ago", a short, whistful smile ghosted along his lips at this memory of a younger, more idealistic James, who still had had dreams and illusions, „the Captain kept us busy, until we were tired enough to fall asleep where we standing. I have never again carried around as many ropes in my life as I have done before my first battle."

„Did it help?" Her head cocked, and still her gaze. He wondered, if his heart was racing with fear, but considering her questions, maybe it was. He had to avert his eyes, but he honored her with honesty.

„Only in parts. I did pray, and quite ferociously at that. Later, it became better, though."

He stared towards the horizon, remembering the days, when everything still was much easier. Now, at the end of his life as he knew it, he could not help wishing himself back.

It was painful.

„I do not think I will carry ropes around", Susannah said, humor coloring her voice. „Although some of the crew might be very amused at me doing this."

He laughed, softly.

„Indeed." It was a relief to hear her talking lightly, if only for this moment.

„I do not know, what will happen tomorrow. I wish I had an answer, or a guideline. But I am lost."

„Until now, your gift has not deserted you, has it?" James said, cautiously, as if he were overstepping a boundary with this words, but she only shook her head, shrugging. „So then, we all should exercise a bit of trust in you, isn't it so?"

She looked at him surprisedly, for a moment apparently at loss for something to say. But then, her gaze broke, as if something else had crossed her mind.

„They do trust me", she said, with a soft nod in direction of the main mast, meaning the crew. „Which does not make it better. I am…"; she spread out her hands in something bordering desperation. „… a seamstress. Not…"

„I understand", he said softly.

„Their trust is like a weight of tons on me", she tried to explain, and he, a bitter smile on his lips, remembered his first days as commander. The open display of strength. The silent doubts, once the door of his cabin closed behind him.

„This gets better as well", he mused softly. „With time."

„Always with time", Susannah said, quite bitterly. „Which makes today's wake none the less hard…"

„Then I will wake with you, if you will have it." The sentence felt like leaping all over again, as if he had crossed a cliff jumping, and was hanging on his toes, caught between standing and falling until she gave him an answer. He had a fleeting memory of standing atop the fort, and half expected Susannah to fall down to disappear beneath the waters, as Elizabeth had done to escape from him.

The thought carried no sting and he felt as if the winds were knocked out of him.

But she did not fall, but took a step closer, placing, very surprisingly, her hand on his arm, that was lying loosely on the rail, a gesture so intimate, that it seemed near impossible to him, but her gaze was honest upon his face.

„I am grateful for it", she said, and something in her words made him feel the concentration that it had taken her to utter them, a soft tremble, that betrayed fear.

He could, for the life of him, think of nothing to say. Her small gloved fingers were burning through the cloth of his coat, scourging him with their warmths. But then, since none of this could be real, he placed his hand atop hers, fingers entwining, and he would almost have closed his eyes at the comfort of the gesture, but he did not, shreds of propriety still in order.

But he did not move away.

And neither did she.


	53. On the fragility of glass slippers

A/N: Nice to be welcomed so warmly, savvy... The reason for my silence was actually a multiple one. The second-to-last chapter mysteriously vanished from my computer after (luckily) being translated into german. This, I tried to retranslate it ito english, but couldn't really bring myself to it. Plus, I have been lacking time, not enthusiasm, but time, of late, so it takes quite some time for me to finish a chapter. I am still on it, however :-)

BTW, a bit of trivia concerning the title... Will Turner getting engaged to Elizabeth Swann is a bit of a cinderella story to me, (just that he's cinderella...), and in the cinderella story, glass slippers play a vital role, so to speak..

But did anyone ever think of how easily they break?

* * *

**Chapter 52**

**On the fragility of glass slippers**

"I will, as far as it is possible for me, be honest with you."

Elizabeth could not ban the sceptic look from her face. The situation was, in its own way, grotesque, for they were sitting, calmly, together, cups of tea placed in front of each of them, chatting aimably as if this were nothing but a social call.

However, social calls in the middle of the night were, in fact, highly unusual. And Elizabeth had not expected to see the spanish captain again, at least not anytime soon.

It seemed, as if she had underestimated him.

"I figure I am supposed to be flattered now?" she said acidly, tense, while Will, sitting silently next to her, took quick glances around as if once more trying to estimate the chances of escape.

She had to admit that Castellano had taken her quite by surprise, at a time, when they had already thought to be safely escaped from european shores. But apparently, the captain of their vessel had been bribed to bring them to this port, wherever it was, instead of Tortuga, where they had hoped to land, and now, it was hard to concentrate on this sudden conversation.

Undoubtly, Castellano had planned it exactly this way.

The same Captain took a sip from his cup right now, his chest heaving in what was apparently a soundless sigh.

"Is it so hard to imagine that I am trying to help you, Miss Swann?"

"Help us?" William Turner intercepted, shaking his head in exasperation. "We are practically your prisoners! So much for honesty, right?"

Castellano, as if under strain, closed his eyes.

"You may have noticed, Mister Turner, due to the very welcoming climate, and, maybe, if your naval knowledge allows it, also by the time of your voyage, that this is not Spain. This is la Bretagne. Saint Malo, to be precise. You might view it as a kind of neutral territory." He placed a hand against his forehead, as if trying to quell an ache coming from there. "Does that convince you?"

William watched him, eyes squinted, but he retreated again, and Elizabeth took over.

"So, if you are so... philantrophic, and trying to help us, what do you expect from it?"

Castellano watched her for a moment before answering. She did not like his demeanor, not of a predator, but of a spider, sitting comfortably in the middle of his web. Waiting for the flies to be caught, and she did not like to be in this position.

He was difficult to judge. Behind a casual smile and a very courteous manner, there was a man who knew very well, what he wanted. She did not know for sure, what position he had in the spanish navy, but for a moment, she wished she were negotiating with someone who was a bit more like James Norrington, straight laced, but honest, and so much easier to estimate.

But then, she decided, that she had not much to loose. She was, indeed, at his mercy, however golden the bars of her cage were, and he did obviously want something from her. Finding out what he was after was her only way out of this situation.

"One thing at a time, Miss Swann. I promised you honesty, and I stand to my word, as far as I am able. You will surely understand, that there are things, that I am not at liberty to reveal. But in short words, I am intrigued by the latest developments in Port Royal, and, even if this may come as a surprise to you, not only for political reasons. I was wondering...", his long fingers played with the silver spoon lying on the saucer, "... when did you realize that your father's guest is not quite what she claims to be?"

Elizabeth hoped she hid her surprise better than Will. She had, somehow, estimated that this had something to do with the spanish woman. Castellano had at least by name known the Halverys, so there was supposed to be more to it.

"Her daughter", she said, by way of explanation. "She... in a way... told me about it."

"Good Leonora", Castellano said, smiling almost whistfully. "In her way as extraordinary as her mother."

"You know her?" Elizabeth asked. Castellano nodded.

"We have crossed paths twice", he explained, "even though the first time long ago. She is in her own way a very memorable lady." He sounded almost whistful.

"She is quite mad", Elizabeth contradicted firmly. "She has been in our home for two months, and I never got a coherent word out of her." For a moment, she remembered Leonora's extravagant manners, wondering, if the tragedy of her life had robbed the girl of her wits, or whether the strange thing now bearing Crystabella Halvery's skin was responsible for this.

Castellano watched her, a frown plastered on his features.

"That is, indeed, odd. Out of curiosity, Miss Swann – do you think this is due to the death of her parents or due to her current situation?"

Elizabeth felt a shiver run down her spine. Obviously, Castellano knew quite a bit about this himself. He watched her, luring.

"I am not sure", she said, surprising herself with honesty. "If I had to guess, I would say, that it was not the death of her parents that unsettled her so."

Castellano nodded softly.

"As I said", he said, rewarding her honesty by responding in kind, "I have met her twice, and the last time was about a year back. I may be mistaken of course, but she did not strike me as being a person easily unsettled." He let the spoon wander through his long fingers. "So, what do you reckon it is, that is playing the role of Crystabella Halvery right now?"

Out of the corner of an eye, she saw Will shaking his head, maybe in disbelief, maybe as a signal to her, but she had not wanted to give a straight answer, anyway.

"Good question, Captain. Although not the only good question that comes to my mind as we are sitting here."

Castellano stood, pacing a few steps before leaning against a small cupboard, arms crossed.

"Cards on the table, Miss Swann?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"Cards on the table, captain."

Castellano nodded.

"Very well, Miss Swann. I have noticed, that things in Port Royal are – carefully spoken – a trifle off foot. I might, of course, just inform my superiors of this, but matters are never that simple, are they?"

He smiled.

"Thus, I am making you an offer. I know, that you are trying to regain footing in Port Royal, whether for yourself or for the British I don't care. I might be able to help you. A ship comes in handy at times, and I happen to be in posession of one."

"And the price?"

Elizabeth remained suspicious.

"The price is nothing that I figure you would regret to be rid of. As a recompensation for my help, I would ask, that after you regained Port Royal, you will return Leonora Halvery into my custody."

"Out of question!" Will Turner intercepted, in exasperation, looking to Elizabeth for conformation. But he did not like, what he saw in her eyes.

She was considering.

"Why?" she asked, after a moment's consideration. Castellano pursed his lips in amusement.

"Do you, as a habit, insult your own intelligence, or shall I just take this as a momentary lapse of reason?"

A muscle in her jaw twitched, and Will was tense as well. But they were in no position to flare up at the moment, and therefor Elizabeth continued, with icy calm.

"I just expect betrayal and second thought in my dealings, especially with you, Capitan. It seemed to me a wise course of action so far."

"Albeit not a very successful one..." Castellano got up and strode the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out of the small cabin windown. "Prejudice, Miss Swann, as ugly a word as it is. I come to you, totally sincere, and yet you mistrust me still." He smiled to himself. "Nevertheless, I have to inform you, that my motives are, indeed, quite what meets the eye. Leonora Halvery is, as you may surely fanthom yourself, a valuable source of information."

"For you and for us", William reminded, mistrusting. Castellano nodded.

"Indeed. But, consider, if I help you, I place myself, my ship, my career at considerable risk. I may be prone to give in to philantrophic tendencies, but I am no fool. You have well observed yourself, that everything comes with a price. This is mine."

Elizabeth chewed on her lips thoughtfully.

"The exact terms of your support?"

"Elizabeth, you cannot be seriously considering..." Will intercepted in exasperation, but she cut him off short.

"Will... this is not the time." And, with a warning look towards Castellano. "Let me handle this."

He shook his head.

"I cannot believe you are doing this! If the state she was in is anything to go by, she needs help, not to be passed around like some unwanted bargain, Elizabeth. You are selling her!"

"Indeed, maybe I am." Her eyes had gone from questioning to cold, her temper flaring at his impropriate – and very unhelpful – behavior. "And if I am, than it is, because I have been taught a thing or other about negotiations, which probably does not apply to you!"

She knew the mistake the moment she spoke, but it was too late to send the words back in. He paled, if in rage or in shock she did not know, but without a word he got up, turning his back to her and towards the door. His shoulders were set, and for a moment, she felt the deep urge to cry out to him.

But she resisted.

And thus, William Turner left, unhindered.

"An interesting pair you make", Fernando Castellano remarked, amusedly.

"The terms." Elizabeth's temper was wearing short, considering the situation, considering, that Will had just left in anger, considering, that she had to admit that she had messed up things this time, despite her best intentions. Castellano raised a brow.

"Well. I will help you in whatever it takes to free Port Royal from the influence given. In this, I can offer you my ship, and my crew, and while I will not put them onto a suicidal mission, you may rest assured, that as long as I see a chance at success, you will find me at your side. In return to this, you will return Leonora Halvery to my custody."

"And if she does not want to?" Elizabeth hesitated.

"This is an imperfect world." Castellano seemed quite nonplussed about Leonora's possible discomfort.

"I see", the governor's daughter replied. It was a hard bargain. But she did not seem to have any other choice. Castellano had played his cards well, and briefly, she wondered, what exactly it was, that made Leonora so interesting for him. But maybe, she thought, only a moment later, it was Leonora's talent in forgery. Quite a many documents, true and false, must have passed her hands – and this might open doors for Castellano, that had yet been closed to him. The bargain was tainted. Elizabeth was negotiating about lives other than her own, as if the spanish girl were just a pupped to her. But there was Port Royal, there was her father. And there was the fact, that despite all the longing for adventure, a small part of herself wanted to know, that there was at least a home to return to.

So she nodded.

"Done."

* * *

She found him standing at the rail, looking down towards the city nestled upon the hill. The tide had withdrawn leaving much of the town's surroundings free of water, while they were safely bobbing up and down farther out. The scenery was quite idyllic, the night starry, because the wind had blown away all the clouds in its wake. The moon was nearly full, standing high in the sky and spilling a milky pale light upon the deck of the 'Bartholomew'.

She felt a lump in her throat. His whole posture spoke of anger, of pain maybe, and Elizabeth, looking at his silent form, realized, that she had gone too far.

"Is this all I am to you?"

She was still a few paces away, when she heard him speak, cold, bitter maybe. She stopped in her tracks.

"What do you mean?"

He turned around, and she had never seen him as angry as this. His eyes were hooded, and when he finally looked at her, there was nothing left of the characteristic warmth she knew so well. She realized, with a start, that she had really hurt him.

"Are you", he asked, very softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly, "seriously asking that?"

"No", she said, quickly, shaking her head. "No, of course not."

But this did not help her to get further. She knew she had hurt him by brushing him aside, but this did not change anything about her opinion in general. Her deal with Castellano was painful to say the least, but there was nothing else she could have done. Truly enough, she needed any support that she could get, and Castellano, even though he might not be exactly on her side, was at least some help.

And there was still the small hope of finding a way out of this without jeopardizing Leonora Halvery – presumed, of course, that she would think about being in Castellano's custody as a jeopardy after all.

"I know very well", he said, with a calm that spoke lengths of how forced it was, "that I have not had the same upbringing that was placed upon you." His hands were clenched into fists, outward sign of his internal turmoil. "But this does not give you any right to treat me this way."

"This is not about vanity, Will, not about yours, and not about mine. This is about responsibility."

He raised both eyebrows.

"Responsibility? Funny you should say that."

His tone was acid.

"Listen, Will", she began, but he cut her off.

"No, Elizabeth, this time you listen. Since this whole thing started you have keeping me at arms length, as if I were not worthy, or not capable of helping you in your current situation. You keep to yourself, you decide for yourself, and you do not even share. You treat me like a stranger, like a child, like an appendix unwanted." He looked at her sternly, but with lingering sadness in his eyes. "I am neither, and will not be made it either."

"I will not have you do everything for me, Will", she tried to sound gentle without moving away from her actual point.

"This is not about doing anything for you, Elizabeth. This is about the way you see me. I thought that, no matter what, we would be together in this. I thought we would support each other. I was thinking about...", he hesitated, "equality. But it was obvious, that I was wrong. Your are the governor's daughter. And I am... a blacksmith. I thoguht you would see bayound this. But, apparently, I was wrong."

She stared at him, horrified at what her words had done. He was maybe right – to some extent – and she, who did not, under normal circumstances, did not give much on upbringing or heritage, was apparently not as free of prejudice – and arrogance – as she had hoped.

"Will, I..."

He raised a hand, shaking his head.

"Don't say anything, Elizabeth, not now. I will go to sleep now. It has been a long and trying day."

She stared at his retreating back with tears in her eyes, violently wishing she was able to take back her words and at the same time feeling at loss


	54. Into the fire

Savvy: I agree with you on Will - in parts. I wouldn't call it incompetence, really, it's just that he has another view on the world. Those that have few responsibilities can afford to look towards the fate of one person, to stay small, so to speak, while people with Elizabeth's upbringing must, at some point, have learnt to sacrifice someone for the greater good. Both are acting on their upbringing here - which is indeed what stands between them.

But for now, back to someone else... ;-)

* * *

**Chapter 53**

**Into the fire**

_Der Kapitän steht an der Spiere_

_Das Fernrohr in gebräunter Hand_

_Dem schwarzgelockten Passagiere_

_Hat er den Rücken zugewandt_

_Nach einem Wolkenstreif in Sinnen_

_Die beiden wie zwei Pfeiler sehn_

_Der Fremde fragt ‚Was dräut dort drinnen'?_

_„Der Teufel", brummt der Kapitän._

_**Die Vergeltung, Anette Droste-Hülshoff**_

_The captain stands at the tiller,_

_His telescope in sunbunt hand_

_To a passenger, head in black curls_

_His back in watching he has turned_

_At a strip of cloud, like pillars, thinking_

_The two of them are watching straight_

_The stranger says: „What's brewing within?"_

_„The devil", growls the captain._

**_Retribution, Anette Droste-Hülshoff_**

* * *

„It has become worse."

They made an unlikely alliance, the black woman, slender, delicate, but full of energy, her head, this time, not shielded by a straw hat, and the british man, standing tall as if a captain on deck, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders squared, his footing on the swaying ship every bit as sure as that of the woman. He frowned out at the clouds drawing nearer.

„It has?" he asked, but he was obviously not expecting an answer, being deep in contemplation as to the strange weather phenomenom before him.

„I'd lower the sails to a third already", he mused, in an almost offhand manner. „The wind may come swiftly, and we are making good speed already."

She squinted her eyes. He was right, of course. And this was not his first off-handed remark that betrayed the skilled sailor.

„Who are you?" she asked, her eyes squinted. „You've sailed, and you've done so often. Yet, I never heard of your name. So, who are you really?"

„Someone"; James Norrington replied smoothly, „who would prefer to survive this day." He was beginning to become better at this, the game of evasion, of indirect words, of secrets withheld and kept. He was not sure whether to cherish this, but he was, in a very strange and – to his eyes – almost perverted way satisfied, that he was still able to learn and adapt quickly, to grasp a situation in a moment and react accordingly. This was what had earned him his rank at his young age, and it was apparently about to save his neck once more.

Anamaria grinned wolfishly, as if she found a strange delight in his answer.

„Pirate. I see."

He did, even though every fiber inside him screamed to do so, not contradict her.

„I presume this was meant as a compliment", he remarked drily, and she raised her eyebrows at this comment.

„It was whatever you see in it."

He stayed silent to this. Nothing he could have said would have been honest and wise at the same time.

„There'll bet he devil to pay once we get there", Anamaria changed the subject off-handedly, staring out towards the raging storm. „You might come to regret to have joined us yet."

„I might", he replied, with strange honesty. „But I am familiar with regret."

He turned towards her, tipped his head in an almost friendly manner, his fingers touching an invisible hat, before he strode off, towards the starboard side, where a lone figure was staring out at the sea.

* * *

Chaos reigned around them. Rain was pouring down, obscuring the sight upon anything, that was more than a meter away, drenching everybody. The sky was filled with blackened clouds, chasing from horizon to horizon, the sea dark as night, although it was midday barely past.

Everything was swallowed by the water. The storm was tearing at the sails, and the ship swayed violently from side to side.

Anamaria was clutching the helm with both hands to keep it steady, the smooth wood slippery from the rain, but they were still holding course.

The sails had been taken down in good part, in order to save the mast, but it would cost them some of the famed dexterity of the Pearl. James cast a weary eye onto the swaying top mast and hoped, that the pirates knew what they were doing.

He was feeling unexplicably on the edge, a sense of foreboding that was alien to him. Under normal circumstances, he would have dismissed it with a shrug, but this time, dismissing did not seem like an option. He felt, as if he were racing towards a predator, into an open maw, and he desperately longed for something to do to shake the notion of lingering doom.

Suddenly she was standing at his side, her hand upon his shoulder, and he flinched at the sudden movement. She was drenched, as they were all, and there was something strangely fascinating about the way her black curls clung to her head and face, about the way her skin was soaked, raindrops hanging in her lashes, dropping down onto the cheeks at times.

Her other hand was firmly curled around one of the ropes that had been stretched over the decks to allow the crew to walk around.

„Come with me."

He read her words from her lips, unable to hear them in the rage around them and nodded, the two of them carefully placing their feet on the slippery deck. Susannah was fighting hard to keep her footing against the wind, her hands, still bound in the soft gloves she was always wearing, slipping on the ropes. He caught up with her, placing a steadying hand on her back, and their progress was better, as they finally reached the bow.

It was difficult to see further than just a few meters. The rain was obscuring the sight, but Susannah peered out into the darkness, as if, to her eyes, there was much more to see.

„He is expecting us… He knows, that we are coming…"

Once more, he read the words more from her mouth than that he heard her, for she was not even bothering to speak loudly. Following her words, he turned his head to look out into the rain, and she stretched out a hand to show him what she saw.

And indeed, somewhere in the grey swirl before him, shadows were moving.

An icy hand was stretching out towards his heart, and a dread, that he had not even experienced in the face of the undead pirates, threatened to overwhelm him. He gasped for air and did not know, what had taken him so.

It was by no means his first storm.

Rain was dripping through his hair, running along his spine, and he was long since soaking wet, but still, he felt the drops, that, one by one, hit his head like a tender caress.

A soft touch, one of the raindrops, a whistle of the wind, was touching his temple, and it took him a second to realize, that this had nothing at all to do with the raging elements.

His heart missed a beat. Then another. Breathing became literally impossible, as it began to hammer again in his chest, as he stood, unmoving, rigid, his posture speaking of shock. Only out of the corner of an eye he saw her hand, softly stroking from his temple back in direction of his ponytail, her hands gloved, but careful, almost like a blessing. He could only catch fragments of her expression, but it was one of curiosity, at least, with a musing smile hidden, as if she was glad about something that escaped him that moment.

Not that thinking would have been easy at all at this instant, with her hand in his hair. For the life of him, he could not think of something to say.

He should, maybe, a distant part of his mind supplied, tell her off for this impropriety, for this inexplicable and very offending behavior, but he doubted, he would have been able to even speak, had he tried.

And some part of him did not even want her to stop.

A moment stretched to eternity, while her fingers played in his hair, and he could feel the soft movements, as she divided the strands carefully with digit and thumb, each movement like a trail of fire on his skull.

And then it was over. The hand was gone.

He exhaled a breath he had not realized he had been holding and only after two steadying gulps of air he dared to turn around to Susannah, with half a mind of asking her, what she was doing.

It became apparent at the moment, though.

She was looking at her white gloves, and there were a few strands of his brown hair, that had become stuck on the fabric. The woman smiled, softly.

With fingers, that were remarkably nimble, considering that she was wearing gloves, she turned them to and fro, while she drew out a very familiar object from her pocket, another triangulum, made of simple wood. She twirled the hair around one of the tips, and as he squinted, he could see two strands of black hair hanging from two others as well.

Absorbed in what she was doing, she looked up only when she was done again.

Her hand beckoned him to come closer, and as he did, feeling as if reacting not on his own accord, but on some spell of her own making, she raised herself on tiptoes and spoke into his ear.

„Give this to Gibbs. Tell him to take it with him when he goes to the island. It will protect him. Tell him to advise Jack Sparrow to wring something personal around the fourth corner."

Her breath was tickling against his neck, but then she was gone again, looking at him questioningly.

He felt, in part, glad fort he swaying of the ship, since he felt unsteady standing as well.

He swallowed, fighting for composure, and finally nodded. Susannah watched him, thoughtfully, and then nodded with a small smile on her lips.

As she turned towards sea and storm again, he wondered for a brief instance, if he ever would be seeing her again, if they were thus sailing to her doom.

Maybe some words were in order, somthing to rely what he was thinking, so he would not have to regret later, but there was nothing that he could think of, nothing that he would dare, and so he nodded, curtly, and turned, a soldier on his way.

* * *

Gibbs did not even care to hide his hostility, as Norrington stepped up towards him in the pouring rain. He had been gone for quite a while, but it had to be said for him, that he had been quite useful in the beginnings of the storm. Unlike what he would have thought, James Norrington, was, at times, apparently not above serving as a deckhand when things got busy.

Still, he was beyound understanding, what had been going through Susannah's mind, as she had beseeched him not to give his identity away. The seeress possessed enough credibility in Gibbs' eyes to be believed at least in matters of her strange craft, but it was a long shot to trust someone like James Norrington on a pirate ship.

Since then, he had done his best to avoid the Commodore, and he had thankfully done the same – right until now.

Judging from the look on his face as he came closer, he did not like this any more than Gibbs did. Yet, he offered a small token to the sailor, that reminded him forcefully of another token a lifetime ago, that had been tossed into the sea by the incredible Jack Sparrow.

„Lucilla asked me to give this to you"; Norrington said, calmly, his deep voice very steady. Only his eyes betrayed, that he was not as calm, not as composed as he would have Gibbs believe. For an instance the first mate of the Black Pearl wondered at the turmoil, but he nodded only. „It is a protection, she says", the Commodore continued. „And you are to take it with you on the island. Ask Sparrow to complete it." His hand hinted at the free corner. Gibbs squinted his eyes.

„One of these days", he replied, „I am going to ask her why you are in such a high favour with her. And that same day…"

„You are, of course, at liberty to do whatever you seem fit", Norrington intercepted coolly. „However, you might agree, that this is neither the time, nor the place for it."

In this, Gibbs had to admit, he was right.

* * *

„Down!"

He reacted on impulse, without asking or considering, the training of a military man kicking in before memory could supply that he was on a pirate ship, where anything was to be expected.

It saved his life.

Lightning had flashed, somewhere in the brawl before him, and a bullet hit the rail, close to where he had been standing only instants before. For a moment, the ship held its breath.

Then, activity broke loose, Anamaria, standing at the helm, cried her orders over the howling wind, and Norrington, acting on impulse merely, echoed them for the crew near the heck, where the woman's voice would not reach.

The cannons were filled and readied, while Anamaria did her best to bring the side of the Pearl towards the shadow in the rain. For a moment, Norrington violently wished to be aboard the Dauntless, with her front cannons that would have allowed an immediate answer to the fire, but the Pearl was fast, not mighty, and they had to work with what they had.

The ship rolled to the side, as it changed direction, trying to come alongside the shadow, but the winds were tricky, changing, and even though only a third of the sails were still hanging on the masts, navigating was a challenge.

He almost slipped on the deck, as he tried to reach the other side, to be able to get a closer look on the opposing ship, as the floor trembled under the impact of a second gunshot, hardly above the waterline, from the way the ship reacted.

Water in the brigg… just what they needed right now.

„Three men down with spare balks", he cried, before he even remembered, that he was in no position to give any order on this ship. „Close the leak as fast as you can!"

Apparently, old habits died hard. But evenly apparently, he had not completely lost his touch, for after a moment's confusion, he saw indeed Maroo, taking two crewmates with him to follow the order.

„Fire", yelled Anamaria, and he realized, that they had come alongside their enemy. Cannons roared in response to the command, and he could see some of the bullets missing the ship and shooting into the boiling waters, but some seemed to find their target, for he was sure to hear the splintering of wood, and there was, for the moment, no returning fire.

Yet, peace was not supposed to remain long.

* * *

„Reload the cannons!"

Deep in the belly of the ship, Gibbs worked alongside many of his crewmates, shoving new bullets into the iron cannons. Water was time and again swooping down the stairs into the ship, and salt was stinging in the myriad of little wounds, that inevitably covered his hands.

Another salve hit them, tearing a hole in the hull right next to him. The crew was still up to it, the Pearl was a tough girl and not easily subdued. Butt he situation was, at the very least, challenging.

He was standing ankle-deep in the water together with Marty, trying to fix the leak temporarily, when he felt Maroo's hand on his shoulder, tearing him back from what he was doing.

„It's time."

Indeed, however they had done it, he could see the vaguest scheme in the pouring rain, somewhere starboard, something, that might well be an island.

One of the sails had been breached by a stray cannon, and to Gibbs' utter disgust, Norrington was standing at the captain's deck together with Anamaria, who had trouble keeping the slippery helm steady, but there was no time to take care of this. The island was near enough to reach her by boat, and four men were right now lowering one of the vessels. They were here to rescue Jack.

Even though it was well beyound him, why the Commodore would want to do this.

Somewhere near the bow, he saw Susannah standing, clutching the rail with her left, as her right cradled something close to her chest. Her whole posture spoke of tension, and for a moment, his hand travelled to the item she had given him. There was nothing he could do except hope, that she had known what she did when giving it to him.

He turned towards Maroo, who was already climbing over the rail into the boat. Time was running short. The Black Pearl might have been able to withstand this storm for a while, but certainly not for eternity.

She was not there, yet. She was coming, and Susannah could feel the proximity like fire in her blood, but she was not there yet, and the ultimate confrontation was put off for now, left her with a few gulps of air, before darkness would swallow her whole. Just as she knew, that her nemesis was coming, she was sure, that Crystabella also knew, that something – or someone – was stealing her prize prey under her very eyes, and that this very someone was using the ancient magic of the trianguli, a magic, that was hated by her for centuries uncounted. Susannah knew, that she would not survive, were they to stay here until she came.

The proximity to her minions told her more about the ghost in the form of a spanish woman, than any of Tia Dalma's lessons would have done, and like a sponge, Susannah drew in these facts, notions, feelings, as if for further reference, and she could feel, that somewhere, out there in the mist, her scrying was answered in kind, searching, tearing, as if to go down to the bottom of her powers, whatever they were, to know her once and for all.

And yet, as she watched out towards the opposing ship, appearing and disappearing in the gliding mist and rain, she was at loss at what to do against its power. Up to now, in situations like these, her gift had taken over a mind of its own, forcing her way, gently but firmly, yet now, when she reached into herself, there was nothing but silence.

The sailors around her seemed to be more at their best right now, but the commands, the cries, passed her as if she were a mere spectator, and for an instance, Susannah asked herself, whether she was deserting them.

It was a thought too painful to bear.

* * *

Jack Sparrow watched the boat approaching with all the ease and calm that he could possibly muster. He sat on the beach in a studied posture, legs crossed, leaned back casually, as if he was just expecting a friendly visitor, and as if he had not been hungry, tired, and exhausted from days of solitude in the storm. Yet, there was no excuse for lack of style.

When he had first seen the black Pearl through the mist, it had been all he could do not to jump up and wave at them, but of course, Gibbs knew perfectly well where he was, and no jumping and shouting would make things better – or worse. Yet, he would have made a pathetic spectacle of himself, and so he was just waiting, the epitome of calm, his heart racing, and his black eyes watching intently how his ship was slowly, but deliberately ripped apart by the Grey Storm.

Leonora was lying at his side, motionless as always, soaked to the bone, her dress ruined, her breath shallow. Had he not, from time to time, checked her breathing, he might have thought her dead, but he knew better, knew, that she was an animal luring, and out of the corner of his eye, he never completely neglected to watch her.

Yet, still, he did not see, how her lashes opened, slowly, and only partially, and beneath black, she peeked around, at the beach, at the mist around them, and her fingers, loosely placed on the sand, curled, not unlike a predator, tensing, for the final jump.

* * *

For the briefest of instances, he wondered, why it was, that the slightly-built Pearl, that was, by all laws of physics and seamanship, easier to unsettle than the sturdy Dauntless, was making so much of a better stand against the Grey Storm than his own ship had, weeks ago. But James Norrington, even though the question irked him greatly, did not have much time to think about it. A vague part of his mind supplied, that it must have had something to do with Susannah, with that, which she called the magic of the trianguli, and whatever the young woman was doing, it seemed to work.

He made it a point of not looking at the bow, where she was standing and doing whatever she was doing to keep them out of harm's way. The James Norrington of Port Royal would have done everything to bring her out of the storm, to make safe, that she could not be washed away by the numerous waves, but she had made it clear, that her place was there, and in a way, he had even understood.

Which did not mean, that he would have liked it. But there was a determination about Susannah, when it came to her gift, that rivalled that of an Elizabeth Swann having set her mind on something. Only, that there was much less rebellion about Susannah's determination, but more of a resigned, scared stubbornness, that nonetheless was based on facts.

Such were the weird stories, that had shattered his life lately.

Lost in thought, for only a moment, it was, nonetheless, a moment too much. He heard the shot, felt the impact and jumped to the side, following more of an instinct than anything, away from the helm, as he heard the splintering of wood.

The ship bucked, revolted, and then he heard a cracking, and, out of the corner of an eye, saw a shadow falling, fabric tearing, and once more he bolted away, shoved himself backwards towards the rail to escape whatever it was that came down onto him.

The balk hit the floor before his feet in a jumble of sails and ropes and rain, and adrenaline shot through him as he understood the narrow escape.

He took a breath, then another, before he got to his feet again, looking around wildly to learn the situation.

They had lost the front sail, the starboard side of the balk had been hit and crashed and was now lying on deck, right in front of the helm, where…

He felt himself going cold.

„Anamaria?"

Swift steps brought him over to where she had been standing, and indeed found her, under the balk, staring up at him with wide, surprised eyes.

A drizzle of blood was running from the corner of her mouth.

She was not breathing.


	55. Times of panic

**Chapter 53**

**Times of panic**

_They were upon them, despite their best efforts to escape, the ship, for once, superior, the wind a betraying ally of theirs._

_They were cornered, and knew it. But the English knew, how to stand a fight._

_Cannonballs flew, wood splintered, and the ship lurched, to the side, then backward, the sickening sound of water streaming into the belly at an alarming rate._

_He was standing at the rail, giving the orders of his captain to the rear of the ship, where two large deck cannons were standing, and into the belly, where there was the rest of the armory of the ‚Voyager'. They were frighteningly close._

_Captain Marriot had hoped to avoid this particular encounter, but fate had not given them the possibility to escape the spanish ‚Santa Elisabetta', who was reckless in her pursuit and, alas, superior in her equipment._

_It was so very similar._

_The splintering of wood. A strangled cry._

_James Norrington staring down into the empty eyes of his captain._

_And then, as if reacting with the greatest calm, he stood, taking his place._

* * *

The hands that touched the unmoving face of Anamaria were wet. Norrington froze, utterly mesmerized, for the twinkle of an eye lost in a moment of another life, when a young, idealistic navy officer had taken over command, ignoring everything protocol dictated for the sake of times of panic.

It was the one breach of propriety that he had never regretted.

He had taken the ship away from their fierce enemy, managing an escape that his superiors had later praised to be of the brilliant sort, making the best of the winds and the damaged ship. It was, as he confessed, even if only to himself, something that he was, up to now, extremely proud of.

And now, as he stared into the dead, empty eyes of the temporary captain of the ship, he wondered, if he could even do it again.

Or why he should even bother.

It came, as the incomparable Jack Sparrow would have put it, down to what a man could, and could not do.

Could he fall lower even, so low, that he would not even only be aboard a pirate ship, but actually command one?

Or could he, on the other hand, leave this ship to its own devices, and go down with it if fate may want it so?

He was no fool, and he had not gotten as far as he had, without understanding quite a bit about how a crew worked. And there was no one, except maybe Joshamee Gibbs, to take Anamaria's place until Jack's return, no one with the guts to face what was luring for them outside in the storm.

Their choices were running out.

He lifted his head to take a look around, to look at the battered ship, and at the specter in the rain before him, that appeared to be slightly lopsided, its movements not as agile as they had been.

He squinted his eyes to be sure of his observation. They had taken damage, but their enemy had not escaped completely unscathed either.

The mantra, that he had said to himself, to his men, time and again, fighting against the superstition sailors were so fond of.

If it bleeds, it can be killed.

The words of archimedes

Give me a place to stand and with a lever I will move the whole world.

Somewhere near the bow of the ship, there was a slender figure, clinging on to the rail, battered by the elements.

He had promised to help her. How could he falter, if she still was standing?

He raised himself to his feet, slowly, deliberately, placing a hand on the rail, thoughts racing. Somewhere in the front, the slender figure turned, watching him over the distance, as if she were judging him, trying to figure him out, as if they were consulting, over meters of space, without a single word. An instant of familiarity, of kinship rushed through him, and then, Susannah raised an arm, pointing at a place slightly left of the enemy ship.

He understood her madness, but could do nothing else but trust her.

„Reload the cannons!" His voice carried, the old, so old habit of command taking over. „All spare men with guns to the starboard side!"

He smiled grimly, adding his last words more to himself than to anyone else that might hear them. „We are taking this war right towards them."

Down on the deck , he could see Marty turning, questions and distrust in his eyes. They had taken him in solely on Susannah's advice, counting on her reputation, and he knew quite well, that he was stretching his welcome thoroughly. Yet, he did not see another choice.

* * *

For an instant, Marty hesitated. Yet, the foreigner was, so much was obvious, no ordinary Tortuga lurker, for all the appearance that he had tried to make of it earlier. There was more to him, a natural aura of command, of stern security, that only few captains were gifted with.

He wondered, what his real name might be.

But there was no time for questions like these now. They were in the middle of trouble, and this man was apparently capable to help them out.

This was all he needed to know for the moment.

* * *

Jack Sparrow sat on the beach, his ankles crossed casually, watching the spectacle out on the sea with every ounce of calm, that he could muster.

For some time now, he had watched the small boat fighting ist way across the water, coming closer at times, being thrown back at others. The storm was fierce, yet, since Jack Sparrow was well aware, that this was far from an ordinary phenomenon, he was nonetheless surprised, that it was quite undirected. It was raging at everything – except the intrinsic ship of course, but it had not been focussed enough to completely destroyed the tiny vessel, that, right now, reached the shallow waters around the island.

With squinted eyes, Jack recognized a few of his crewmembers, guided by Joshamee Gibbs.

„You have taken your time", he complained, as they drew nearer. „I have had a few extremely boring days."

„You should be glad we have come back at all", Gibbs growled, showing every bit of his discontent, in appearance as well as in voice. He was drenched and looked exhausted. „Especially since this whole mess happened because of you."

„Ah, that is easy to say, my dear friend", Jack Sparrow replied. In a way, he was enjoying himself. Leonora had not been a very social companion during their stay on the island, and now he was in the middle of a conversation again. „Yet, how can you say, that this whole mess, as you so conveniently put it, happened because of me, if I am, as should be well known, by no means in a position to call forth such a storm or a ship? I am flattered, extremely flattered by your estimation of my greatness, yet, my personal honesty commands me to decline."

Gibbs blinked, taking in his words, but before he could even find an answer, Jack continued, as he got up.

„Yet, of course, I am extremely grateful for your appearance, which is, in fact, very welcome. Let's go."

Without further ado, he stalked towards Gibbs with the full intention of walking past him towards the nutshell, where Maroo and Lowan were sitting, rows in their hands, but the first mate stuck out a hand, grabbing Jack at the upper arm.

„Wait. What about her."

Jack turned around with grand gesture.

„Her…?"

As if to evade the inevitable for another second.

„Yes", Gibbs said, impatiently. „Her." He gestured to the still form lying in the sand, the remnants of a once pretty dress floating around a slender body, bare feet dugged into the sand, the mass of black hair soakingly wet.

„Ah, her…", Jack replied, as if remembering, all of a sudden. „Yes, we should take her with us. You should take her with us."

„She's dangerous, isn't she?"

Jack considered this for a moment, then he shook his head, water dripping out of the black rastas.

„Ah, no. Don't think so. Still, you might want to watch her closely. Just in case."

And with that, he turned towards the nutshell, that should bring him back to his ship.

* * *

They were racing, wind in his face, whipping around the loose strands into his eyes, an angry rage that humiliated them all with their power, but he was riding the tide, using the storm, as i fit were as well-known to him as the back of his hand. The first time, the Grey Storm had caught him unaware, but this time, James Norrington was very fixed on not being overpowered.

James clenched his hands around the helm, as they approached their enemy.

Passing a ship as closely as they would was a maneuver close to madness, yet, he hoped, that he had interpreted Susannah's hint correctly, and that the seeress finally knew, what to do.

Being a very careful man in private matters, he yet knew, that sometimes, much had to be risked in war to gain victory, and he felt the familiar rush in his veins, the proud, maybe arrogant fierceness, right before the moment that should decide everything.

He realized that he had missed it with every fiber of his being.

And thus it was, that James Norrington, aboard a pirate ship, found again a fragment of his shattered soul.

* * *

Another direct hit, right below where she was standing, and the ship was lurching to one side. Susannah steadied herself, watched the vessel approaching, willing it nearer with every breath she took.

The captain had apparently noticed, that they were trying to meet them alongside, and had his crew stand at the rail, arms at ready, just in case anyone should be foolish enough to try a boarding on the heart of the Grey Storm, and considering, that this was Captain Jack Sparrow's ship, this was probably even a wise course of action.

It was a proud ship, beautiful, the bow crowned by the figure of a dragon in full flight, wings spread out as if to jump, looming above her as they drew nearer. They were coming close, dreadfully close, so that she would be able to make out faces, expressions...

She felt exposed, standing at the bow, all alone.

She prayed, with all her heart, that she would not loose her nerve.

In all her lessons with Tia Dalma, the most time had been spent on learning the ways of the water, the task all the more tedious, since it was very evident, that this was not her natural element, that she felt comfortable on soil, between trees. Yet, the witch had been merciless on her as far as this was concerned, claiming, that water was the element, on which she finally would have to face the ghost.

Now, maybe, this would save her life.

For a moment, she turned around towards the helm, to throw a quick glance at Norrington, who was standing there, comfortable as a fish in the water, stern, terrible, defiant, strong, and how she wished for just a fraction of this strength, just a fraction of this courage. He met her eye, just for the fraction of a second, and something sparkened there, concern, maybe, and something, that was almost trust, and that took her breath away.

She turned back, and the enemy was almost upon them.

„Fire", she heard the Commodore yell, and at the same time saw the cannons peeking out of the hull of the opposing ship, the powder already lightened, the explosion that would blast them to pieces just ahead.

Not of she could help it.

She pressed her hands together, the tiny amphore with seawater almost crushed in her death grip and reached out into the whispers, into the water, into nothingness.

She felt it obey her command.

A surge ran through her, as if something were draining her of all her energy, like a short sprint, but quicker, all her strength forced into a single breath torn from her lungs.

Water splashed up the side of the ship, drenching the cannons, and she felt it seep into the cannon mouths, past the bullet, drenching the powder, quenching the flame, and she did not hear any gunshot, even though those standing at the rail did fire, even if the Pearl herself was shooting at their enemy. She did not even feel the impact at her shoulder, as a bullet found its goal, the source of the damage found, and the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her, was the name of the ship.

The Prince of Wales

* * *

The miracle had happened. They had rushed past the opposing ship, and not a single gunshot had met their side, while many of their own bullets had found their goal. Norrington released a breath.

He did not know, what Susannah had done, but whatever it was, it had worked, since the side of the enemy ship was torn open, violently, and it was tumbling to the side. As they passed their wounded opponent, he could see activity on the deck, hectic, yet organized, with the precision worthy of a vessel of the Royal Navy.

But maybe, it was, for with horror, he realized, that high up on the mast, there was the British flagg, flying proudly, if a bit torn, in the wind. It was a sight as improbable as he could have devised it, to see this familiar, and thoroughly worldly thing in a scenario, that was ruled by ghosts.

Yet, there was no time to ponder on this now. He shouted a short praise over to the men at the rail, then looking towards the bow, where Susannah had been standing, whether for advice or just for the sake of sharing a common victory, he was not sure.

He did not see her, at first, and only after a wild moment of shock realized the sunken heap on the floor, right, where she had been standing, and he would have almost left his station to race over to her, but the old training kicked in, and he called for Mister Cotton to take over the wheel for a moment, before he went to check out on the seeress.

She was deathly pale, and on the floor before his feet there was a pool of rain and blood, originating from her shoulder, where the material was drenched and colored in dark hue.

Terror gripped him at seeing her unmoving form and he fell to his knees, but he found her pulse at her throat, and she was breathing, very softly.

Not knowing why, he allowed himself another moment, precious in times of panic, his hand pressed to her pulse at her throat, watching her breathing very softly.

She might have been sleeping.

The moment passed, and he remembered, who he was.

There was no time for more than a quick survey. James got up again to grasp the situation.

Yet for the moment, the storm was retreating for a bit.

Time to catch their breath.

Their enemy had taken severe damage, but the Pearl was not looking better. It was a miracle that she, with the list they had, was still more or less holding course. Their haphazard maneuver had bought them time, nothing more. Norrington knew well, that they had to escape from the storm before it found its strength again.

There would be no second chance quite like this.

He turned towards the island and saw the small boat drawing nearer, willing it to come closer, yet it was moving ever so slowly.

Marty, stepping up beside him, turned towards him with a frown.

„What now?"

„Get somebody to tend to Lucilla." Thankfully, his voice was steady, hardly betraying his worry. „And we will go and pick up Sparrow."

There was a heartbeat, far away, but drawing nearer. She could feel the wrath, could feel the rage incomparable, and struggled for breath under an assault, that was, for now, still relatively helpless.

She would not have thought anything else. Her vasall was maimed, and this was her doing, and so her wrath was equally hers.

She had stepped out of the dark raising a challenge, and now, that it was uttered, she could not take it back.

She was coming... and terrible was her wrath.

* * *

Pain exploded in her shoulder and almost sent her back to the abyss again, but she remained, half conscious, half lost, the voices whirling around her.

They were almost all here, Jack, James and herself, and Tia, who was not there, but who was the sea, and she could feel the whispering of the old magic, invisible bonds tearing them closer together, and closer still, until there would be a very special triangulum, three sides upon the base that was the sea, and this was, she realized, with a start, what she was feeling.

Some distant part of herself remembered, that she should have told someone about the revelation she just had, but she was drifting, in pain, in confusion, and she drifted away, further away.

She was too far gone already to grab the meaning of the words, uttered in complete exasperation.

„Have you lost it completely? Do you know who that is? It's Norrington! What is he doing on my ship, let alone at my helm?!"

James closed his eyes and slowly counted to five before he straightened and turned to face Sparrow along with the inevitable. The pirate captain was standing at the rail over which he had just climbed, and faced him with utter disdain.

He looked a mess, even by his own standarts. Clothes torn and dirty, soaked to the bone, and judging from the state of his skin, he had been for a while. The khol around the eyes was gone and it made him look very unfamiliar, pale and worn.

His revelation had left the crew in a state of shock. They stared at the man that had, only minutes before, given them orders that they had followed willingly. And now, they had learned, that they had let the snake aboard that they had feared and hated for so long – and rightfully. He had been everything that they were not, and none of them could know, how low he had sunken, indeed. To them, he was still the Navy officer.

He felt tense. The situation was dangerous, inestimable.

He might end up anywhere, including being a feast for the sharks.

„I am saving your ship, Sparrow", he said, keeping to his pride, but his hour was gone. Sparrow's words had turned the tide against him, and in the eyes of those, that had, only moments before, seen the questions of what they would do next, he now saw the inevitable hatred. They were standing in a loose circle around him, each and every one's eyes on him, who was the foreign ursurper, like a statue of a murderer, their dead comrade Anamaria at his feet. The tension could be grasped with bare hands, and for a moment, he thought of the wildest ways of escape.

But James Norrington was a better man than that and faced judgement with dignity.

He faced them, one after the other, then turned back to Jack Sparrow, who seemed to be torn between something like reluctant respect and exasperation.

„An act of piracy, commodore? How befitting of someone in disgrace, such as you."

He rolled his eyes at the utter childishness of the man and pulled the shreds of his dignity in place.

„Please, Sparrow, spare me this. Throw me into the brigg if you want, or throw me into the sea, if it seems more befitting to you. But if I were you, I would try and run from this storm as long as it is..." his lips twitched in the tiniest show of vain pride, „... indisposed, instead of losing energy to bantering."

Sparrow seemed to consider this for a moment, motionlessly. Then he galvanized into action.

„Splendid idea, my friend", he replied, turning around to stalk towards the bow of the ship. „Throw him in the brigg." It sounded almost off-handed. „And Cotton, take the helm."

None of the others moved, looking to and fro between Jack and James with uncertainty. Jack, for the lack of sound behind him, turned again.

„Well, hurry on!"

Needless to say, that it was Gibbs, who first moved.

* * *

Standing in the brigg, he was up to his knees in water, and the door closed behind him with a rattle.

He hesitated, taking a calming breath, before tension began to drain from his body.

It was over. Whatever it had been, it was over. For a brief, glorious moment, there had been a flash of his old confidence, a flash of his old self, in command, even if it was on a pirate ship, in control of the situation, even if he was in mortal peril, but now, the spin of events was out of his hands again, and he felt lost.

Alone.

He had not even made it long enough to learn what had become of Susannah.

Her deathly pale face was etched to his mind, coming back every time he closed his eyes. She was another failure on his list.

He could only hope, that Sparrow did as advised – run as far as he could, away from the storm. But the matter was out of his hands, and all that was left for him, was hope.

Bereft of all strength, he sunk down into the water, the icy liquid lapping at his chest. With hope, he would go numb in time.

Laughter made him turn around. It was only then, that he realized, that he was not alone in the brigg. The ghost of a witch was standing there with him, pressed against the wall, her dress torn, the black hair wild. A disquieting light was flickering through her eyes.

Only seconds later, he recognized beneath grime, disorder and apparent state of madness, that this was Leonora Halvery – or what was left of her – and with a flash he realized, that Susannah might well have been very right about everything concerning the Halverys.

Like a predator, step by step, she closed in on him, smiling, and even though she was slim and tender, he, for a wild moment, wished, they would have left him his gun. There was something dangerous about the way she moved.

„And here you are, all of you"; she said, almost friendly, almost tender. „One would have thougth she would have been smarter than to send all of you here... oh wait a minute, she didn't."

She smiled broadly.

„It was your tiny bird, that decided, that you would go here, right?" A deep, vibrant sigh shook her breast. „Ah, poor Susannah dear. Caught up in a game to large for her."

Clenching his hands below the water surface he did his best to remain calm, to make a splendid show of indifference, while he was not feeling it in the slightest.

„This is bantering", he said, with considerable disdain. She laughed, a rich, warm sound, that was almost comforting, almost friendly.

„Well, yes, of a sort, it is."

„What do you want?"

Leonora closed in on him until she was standing right before him, going down to her knees to face him directly.

„And to think that I had you all there, when I came..." Her smile was whistful, even sad. „She hid you well. All of you. I had to give her that."

He squinted his eyes. This was not Leonora Halvery he was talking to. There was something else in her eyes, and if he would have had to place a bet, he would have rooted for ehr mother.

„You are boring me", he managed to say coldly. The ratinal part of his mind was annoyed at her bantering, even though instincts screamed otherwise. She smiled.

„Indeed? I would have thought, you would want to know, what truly happened to your father..."

She shrugged, uttering a tiny 'Ah', sounding off-handed, before she got um to go pack toher place against the wall.

James drew in a hasty breath. Even though a part of his mind had already suggested, that this particular ghost story must have been connected to his father, he had never actually thought of the implications.

„What?"

She turned, softly.

„Do you trust me?", she asked, with the softest of smiles, begging, asking for an answer, that would have been given so easily.

But how could he have forgotten Susannah's words, confided to him with obvious effort and strain, a trust of a very different making.

He swallowed hard. But his voice was steady.

„Keep your secrets."

She laughed again.

„Just as well. For I will be coming anyway. Run, run, tiny midgets, run. For if I come to catch you, there is nothing that would save you. And when I catch you, then I will take all three of you, the pirate, the girl and the knight. Tell me, James Norrington, tell me about precious Susannah. Which way would you like to watch her die?"

Like a dagger in his heart, her words cut into him, a suggestion so atrocious, that he would almost have jumped at her. But he was a better man than that.

She was provoking him. So there was something to gain from his rage. Which was exactly why he wouldn't give her any of it.

His heart was beating rapidly, but he banned any thought of the seeress from his mind, finding back his cool composure, that had been his trademark for so long.

„You are boring me", he repeated. „I thought you had to organize a pursuit."

„Your men are very well trained, Commodore, I commend you. There is not much for me to do, indeed."

James smiled without any real joy.

„Overconfident already?"

„You are a very annoying man", she informed him. „I will keep that in mind, for further notice."

Leonora Halvery sat down in the water, her fingers grazing the surface dreamily.

As if she were lost in a completely differend world.


	56. In between

**Chapter 55: In between  
**

She might have been sleeping.

Kuluk-Hye hesitated at the sight of Tia Dalma's silent form. She was sitting, legs hidden beneath her elaborate skirt, on her balcony, leaning against the windswept wall of her cottage. A bowl was standing calmly in her lap and she had buried her hands within, so that they were hidden from the sight of the medicine man who was standing at the bank of the murky river, looking up to the mystery that lived here.

His skin was tingling, and this was, what had brought him here. He had felt her will reaching out, travelling wind and water, and he had spent too much time here, with her, not to realize, that something was afoot. His own senses had known her whispers for a very long time, instructing, commanding, but also storytelling, and she had often relied on him, on his force. He had always known when to come, and today, he had once more felt that he might be needed here.

Sometimes, in his prider moments, Kuluk-Hye considered, that his tribe was the reason she had taken up residence on this very island in the first place, but he also knew of the ancient sources of powert hat were lingering here, and sometimes, he thought that the reason could be found in both.

There was no telling, how long she had been here already, and no stories of his fathers knew of her coming, and no stories of his fathers had ever spoken of her leaving the island. But always, the schaman of the tribe had been in league with her, and so he had been, and so was Lua-Phey, his pupil, who was now, since he had lived long beyound his time, a master herself. They had been doing her bidding for a long time now, and they had felt, with the same urgency that always took them when she was restless, that things were afoot again.

He was alone. Lua-Phey, who was named for the star that brought the spring, was bringing to this world the child of Tanaka and Iril, and so he was answering the call on his own. Lately, while his eyes were failing and his bones more complaintive of the more strenuous activity, she had relied more and more upon the younger woman, but he did not think ill of her because of it.

It was the way of the world, and Kuluk-Hye knew, that he had lived well beyound his time. Evening was upon him and night would soon be falling, but he was not afraid. The spirits were strong on the island that held her, and they would safely see him home to his ancestors.

A couple of birds were leaving the bushes nearby, and he raised his head to look at their pathway. The stars were dimming, hidden by the veil that obscured his view with every day more, but from what he knew, he knew the signs were favourable for the young one to be born.

It was a good night.

He turned his face to the seemingly sleeping Tia Dalma again, wondering if he should dare approaching. She had not called him as such, but he had rather felt the foreboding of something afoot, and she was a dangerous thing to disturb idly.

He watched the way of the river, floating idly, now and then being caught in a tiny whirl when some underwater obstacle met with resistance. He hesitated and watched their game, reading from the flows with an age-old proficiency.

And then, he went to see her.

* * *

„Kuluk-Hye", she greeted him, ere he had set his foot upon the platform that she was sitting on, showing him, that she had been well aware of his presence for how long he could not tell. She did not open her eyes, or turn to him, nothing moving except for her lips, speaking, then turning upwards in a soft, if a bit strained smile.

„My queen", he replied, in his own tongue. He had adressed her so since he had first seen her, a lad still, barely old enough to grow into the secrets he was made keeper of. „Things are afoot."

She nodded, ever so softly, a movement he would have missed, had he not been watching so intently. „They are." She swallowed, and in the dim light he saw, that her face was pale, her skin sagging, as if her form itself were somehow drawn out, like butter, spread over too much bread. It had been long since he had seen her so tired.

Last time, he remembered dimly, many moons and even many suns ago, when Lua-Phey had been with him for twice the change of the sun, and when she had been sent on her first errand by Tia Dalma, it was then, when the woman had been similarly drawn out. The time before that, he remembered with a twinge of guilt, had been, when Rin-Thia had died.

She had been his first pupil, gifted, talented, but she had followed the man that came from the sea, never to return. Sometimes, at night, the old schaman remembered her with regret, hoping, that Lua-Phey, who was like a daughter to him, would never meet the same fate.

Seeing Tia Dalma in this state of exhaustion could only mean one thing – the nameless one was travelling again, and this time, Kuluk-Hye feared, his revenge would be dreadful.

The nameless one was a relic of their own stories and songs, older than their tribe, older, maybe than the sea itself, a creature spoken of with awe and fear, an evil thing hidden deep within the earth, guarded by the Gaiatu, who where their brothers in more than one way.

Twice it had emerged, within the lifetime of Kuluk-Hye, once, fully, once only in parts, and now was the third time, and all, that knew the signs of the world, knew, that there was a special power in the number of three, that especially the spirit would have to obey to.

Kuluk-Hye was not afraid. He was too old to fear for his life and had more than once wished, that the spirits of his ancestors would take him with them from the toils of the earth, but it seemed, that his deed was not yet done, and like the ancient gods of their fathers, she would not let him go so easily.

„It is the fourth time", Tia Dalma said, by way of explaining, „since the trianguli came."

Kuluk-Hye knew, that she was talking about the nameless one, even though he did not know what the fourth time was – it had probably happened before he had been born and trained.

There was no telling, how old Tia Dalma was.

„The four is deciding", he replied, stating the obvious, and now she was indeed smiling, a grim, tired smile, yet a smile, that spoke of hope.

„In this story, at least", she confirmed, and her fingers softly danced through the bowl that was, as Kuluk-Hye now saw, filled with water. And then, she opened her eyes to look at him, and he saw a cautious relief there, that spread over to him, without any means of hindering.

„But all is well, for now", she said. „For a small while at least."

„Where is it?" the shaman asked, and Tia Dalma winked, smugly.

„It has suffered a defeat today, a small one, but a first one, and it does not take it lightly. It is travelling the seas, and it is angry. It has been surprised by the strength of the bond and needs time to regroup, to strengthen its grasp."

„That is good", Kuluk-Hye said, nodding.

„In parts", Tia Dalma replied. „I would have liked to hide them for longer. They escaped, but they are unveiled to its eyes."

Thoughtfully she looked into the bowl, into the swirls and swishes, and Kuluk-Hye did the same, remarking the small seashells buried under the water, drifting around with every careful move of her hands.

They cowered there, reading the signs together, while none of them needed the other for advice, and when Tia Dalma raised her head to look at the shaman, the latter nodded. „There is nothing to be done about it, now", the woman continued. „They will come, and we will see."

„Maybe", Kuluk-Hye opted, a bit carefully, for it was always risky having his own opinion around Tia, „maybe there is good in it. They found strength."

Tia smiled, now with real joy in her eyes.

„They are strong."

* * *

Time drifted by in lazy, tormenting bits, torn into smaller parts by the dripping of water into the pool that was now the brigg. Every other second, like the ticking of a clock, another drop fell, giving a tiny, almost joyful sound that seemed misplaced in their surrounding.

Leonora was breathing softly, not asleep, but something close, a catatonic state she had fallen in once the breath of her mother had left her for good.

It might have been peace, but it had been, it was shattered a few seconds ago.

James sat, leaning against the iron bars of the prison and listened to the screams, his whole body tense and pained, his teeth clenched.

At least, she was alive, still. And yet, the sounds of agony tore him apart. There was no telling, of what they did to her.

And then, silence. He remained, unmoving, unable to breathe, listening for another sound coming from above, telling him of what had happened, but there was none and he was left to his own thoughts.

Their apparent, frantic speed had slowed. The ship was not creaking any more as it used to, but gliding, almost smoothly, even though the slight tilt of the wall of the brigg told the experienced sailor, that they were undergoing quite heavy list.

Yet, somehow, Sparrow seemed to have conjured up the miracle of running away not only from the Grey Storm, but from the source of evil itself, even though James, gifted with a thorough understanding for the natural, but at loss among the supernatural, could not even imagine what actually fighting the ghost of Crystabella Halvery would have been like.

He felt an urge to ask Susannah about this, but the seeress was not there, and her screams had, only moments before, echoed through the brigg.

He wondered what he would do, if she died.

* * *

"She's gone", Maroo said, looking down on the silent form of Susannah Delanney, who, with a chemise that was at her shoulder soaked with blood, lay between them, pale as a sheet and unmoving.

"Yeah", Marty replied, standing on a stool, bowed over the young woman, a pincette of steel in his hand. "But I got the bullet." He held up the smeared item triumphantly, and put aside the bottle of rum that he had taken to disinfect the wound.

This was also what was responsible for the current state of Susannah. While she had stayed conscient during the removal of the projectile, she had finally given in to oblivion when he had disinfected the wound, which was now still bleeding, but in clean, red blood. For a moment he thought, that it might have been wiser, had she blacked out earlier, for the procedure had apparently been painful.

Devil's snare, that girl had a voice, when she put herself to it!

Maroo was looking for bandages in the cupboard of the captains cabin, when the door opened to a very windswept-looking Captain Jack Sparrow, of whom, once he had set his foot upon the familiar planks of his ship, apparently had gliden off every strain and effort of the past days to leave only his usual, aloof self to be seen.

He peeked unto the table, where Susannah was stretched out and made a face, half of disgust, half in shared pain, not coming nearer, but surveying the damage done from safe distance.

"Is she alive?"

Marty nodded, from the look on his face evident, that he was not satisfied with the distrust of his captain in his surgeon abilities.

"Sure."

"Ah, very good to know." Jack Sparrow seemed relieved, indeed, and there was no wondering about this, considering, that it was Tia Dalma who would have been very cross, had he failed to bring home her pupil and helper. Which was, in fact, the only reason why the crew was willing to overlook whom she had brought aboard.

* * *

Night was upon them for a long time before Susannah woke up. She felt worn, and feverish, and once she tried to move, pain shot up her arm into her shoulder that would have almost forced her to cry out. Memory came back only slowly.

The storm. The charm of water. The bullet. And then the endless agony of surgery from the dwarf and the black man, before welcoming blackness had engulfed her like a friend. Now, the searing pain in her shoulder had receded into a dull throbbing that was painful, but bearable. She felt cold.

The captain's cabin was dark, flickering light peeking in from outside, from the deck, where the crew was moving about. Susannah found back into reality only slowly.

The revelation hit her like a shock.

James.

With no one to protect him, there was no telling, what Jack's crew had done with him, and she could concieve no circumstances, under which the pirate captain would not have identified the commodore.

She sat up.

Dizziness claimed her for a moment, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering in her chest with ferocious intensity, trying to keep her frail body awake. She placed a trembling hand against her forehead.

It was damped with cold sweat.

She was feverish.

Yet, there were things more important than this. And so, slowly, batteling her revolting body, she got up from Sparrow's cot, finding her unsteady way to the door.

* * *

Outside, the ship was bathed in the flickering light of torches, the crew moving around like shadows, silent and demure.

The sky was clouded, the night pitch black as they were, almost soundlessly, gliding throughthe darkness as if they were a ghost ship. Susannah was remembered of an old tale her mother had told her, that people, who had passed through mortal danger and escaped, remained untouchable for the duration of the night.

In the strange flickering of the torches she could almost believe it.

But there was something more to this atmosphere, and she turned around to find the source of it, looked into the faces, that wore grim, tired expressions, so unlike the free, careless pirates. But survival always came with a price.

Gibbs was sitting on a barrel, carving on a piece of wood, apparently lost in his own thoughts, while Jack Sparrow, standing next to his helm, looked dirty, but unruffled as ever, if a bit distant. Op on the command stand, there was lying a silent figure, a cloth drawn over her body. Susannah's throat tightened.

The outlines of the body were distinctively female. Which left nothing to be said.

Anamaria.

She felt tears springing to her eyes. The mulatto woman had been the only thing that came close to an ally on this ship here, and now, apparently she was gone.

With careful steps, biting her tongue to choke back tears, she turned towards Sparrow, climbing up the stairs, every step an agony in her shoulder. She felt cold, shivering, and would have liked nothing more than to lie down and sleep for eternity, but some call of duty, some remnant of strength – or stubbornness – had her go on.

Jack turned to her, a lopsided smile on his face, and she tried in vain to find remorse in his black eyes.

„What happened?"

Her hand tightened around the banister as dizziness assaulted and pain shot through her shoulder. Jack Sparrow raised his brow in something close to mockery.

„You should ask your pal, Norrington. Tell me one thing, luv. Did ye know it was him?"

She stared at him incredulously, trying to process the information.

„What?"

Sparrow sighed, taking a step towards her, then another.

„How to break this to you easily... The buddy you broad aboard and whose identity you bullied Gibbs into hiding was N..."

She felt a slight twinge of annoyance and a strong surge of surreality. And she reacted before she had the time to become scared.

„Of course I know who he was", she replied, not without edge. „But you cannot seriously consider he killed her."

Jack Sparrow put his arm around her shoulders in a brotherly manner. She winced and tensed from the pain in her wound and the unfamiliarity of the sentiment.

„Sweetie", Sparrow continued. „You make it sound as if it were ridiculous that he should kill a pirate..."

„That is something different." She sounded less sure, now, in the center of Sparrow's attention. Somewhere deep within was a remnant of the old Susannah, the seamstress, shrinking back from intervention, shrinking back from being in the center of attention. But she knew, that she could not afford this luxury any more.

She needed to be strong, for herself, if for no one else.

„Where is he?" Her voice was deviod of tone, not even allowing herself the thought, that Sparrow might have disposed of his long time enemy.

„He's in the brigg", Sparrow replied, off-handed.

„Release him", she demanded, taking a step back, watching him, arms crossed. Jack smiled, radiantly.

„Of course..." The smile vanished. „... not."

She shook her head. She had not thought things would go smoothly, once the two other faces of the triangulum would have met, this surpassed her fears. She wondered, what Tia Dalma would expect of her in this situation. But the witch woman had always been sparse with advice, leaving her to her own devices.

„Release him"; she repeated, with more strength in her voice. She felt her body only partially complying, her vision narrowing down. She was feverish. She had to use what strength she had. There was no telling what would happen, the next time she passed out or what world she would wake up to.

Sparrow shook his head.

„I hate to decline the request of a lady... yet you are not really one, are you?"

Susannah tensed.

„She will not like this at all, Jack Sparrow..."

It did not sound like a threat, but after a moments consideration, she decided, that it was maybe for the better. The facts were on her side, and this was more easily made clear.

„Maybe you should leave behind yourself such simple conceptions as a side, or the idea of good and evil. I'm telling ya this, because I like ya, of sorts. You have guts, for a city girl of Port Royal, and so ye better remember this. Norrington is trouble if there's ever been some. He's capable of throwing ye into prison after all this, just fer hanging out in Tortuga. He's on his own side, much like all of us are. You'd better find your own side as well, because otherwise you might be caught in the middle."

She gasped for air, looking for an adequate response, but Sparrow did not even give her the time for it. He passed her, placing a friendly hand on her shoulder.

„Don't fret, sweetie. You'll get used to it."

And with this, he passed her, leaving her, uneasily, to wonder, how much truth and how much manipulation there had been in Jack Sparrow's words.

* * *

An hour later found Susannah still on deck, leaning against the rail, staring into the pitch black water that was, meters below her, licking on the wall of the damaged ship. Behind her, there was the silent form of Anamaria, lying on deck, motionless and gone, another dagger in her pierced heart.

She was turning around the events of the day and found no solution to it all.

The bad thing, and in this, Elizabeth Swann had been right, about Jack Sparrow was, that he was at times right, or at least so close to the mark, that his words were worth considering.

Indeed, she had never thought farther than the fight against Crystabella. She had begun to rely on the former Commodore, but was that really a wise course of action considering who, and what he was? How could she know he would not sell her out if it would bring him back to where he had been? She had seen the overwhelming pain, the deep longing for something lost in his eyes, and she understood enough about human nature that he was a man willing to do almost anything.

Yet, she told herself, he was an honorable man. He was a protector, and there was no betrayal in him.

But she was not sure, whether his despair was not stronger than that. And whether she had, in his eyes, long since lost all innocence.

She closed her eyes in pain. It was no use torturing herself with these thoughts. Things had to be settled, one way or the other. And once more, she had to find within herself the strength to take a step.

* * *

The brigg was filled ankle-deep with wather, and the air was cold and moist. She took the steps one at a time, her breathing laboured, her shoulder a sea of pain. It took agonizing ages to reach the bottom.

He was standing at the bars, watching her approach with wary, tired eyes. The day had taken its toll on him too, was much as he tried to maintain a proud posture, there was a notion of defeat in the way he was holding himself. He was pale, but she imagined something sparking in his eyes as she reached the bottom level, as if he were, much as herself, summoning his final resource for this conversation they both knew they could not avoid.

„Norrington..." She had long thought about how she should address him. It felt unfamiliar not to use his title, but she could not help agreeing with him, that the title of Commodore was unbefitting of the situation. „I am very sorry for..." she waved around her healthy hand in a grad gesture, „all this."

He raised an eyebrow, distant, cool. Dimly, she remembered how he had brought her out of the water after the first vision she had managed to call, and the little, but distinctive notion of panic in his eyes as he had raced towards her in the storm, checking on her when the bullet had struck her, only hours ago. Right now, he seemed miles away from that man.

„It did not come as totally unexpected", he replied drily.

„It was not my choice", Susannah insisted. James averted the gaze of his green eyes, hiding behind a curtain of brown, tangled hair.

„Indeed? I have been wondering, Miss Delanney, Lucilla, whatever it is, that I am supposed to call you, how much of a pirate there is in you exactly." There was a hint of his old sarcasm, and it hurt her deeply.

She closed her eyes.

„Can't you tell?" she asked sadly, feeling bereft of an ally she had begun to rely on. For precious few hours, she had felt something unfamiliar, an understanding that ran deep, even if there were no words to name it. But now, the rift was back, and he was the Commodore again.

As for herself, she did not know, what he was.

He responded with silence, watching her. She felt his gaze through closed lids. He was breathing calmly.

„No", he replied, after an eternity, but his tone had changed from bitterness to resignation. „Maybe there is nothing I can tell any more."

She met his gaze and saw a tortured note there, an agony that had only been masked with a thin veil of actionism, but that had broken out once more, now, that the tension had drained and there was nothing to do.

„Maybe neither can I"; Susannah replied and smiled softly. „What a pair we make."

His lips twitched, very obviously despite himself.

„Maybe you are right."

„I am no more a pirate than this makes me", she continued, with a gesture around her. „And not by my own willing, but for lack of choice." She sighed softly. „Although I do not expect this to count before..."

Before what? Before him? Before the law? Before a court?

„You have a very grim view on the world for someone so young", Norrington commented. „And on me."

She wondered whether she had imagined the disappointmend in his voice, but there was nothing in his eyes to tell her a deeper meaning to his words.

„No", she said. „Like I said. Maybe I do not know anything any more." He began to speak, but she shook her head, continuing before he could. „Neither of where I stand, nor what would happen once all this is over. But this is of no consequence. Not now. I do not even know what toll it will take to bring her out of Port Royal. Who knows whether all this discussion is in vain..."

„No." He stepped closer to the bars, shaking his head. „Do not allow yourself to think in this direction." His eyes were intent, and alive, for the first time since the conversation had begun. „This is the most secure way to failure. You are defeated if you admit it."

She stepped closer as well, head tilted, now, that her curiosity was peaked once more. She had begun to loose her fear of him when he was like this, stern, but honest. And she sensed a door opened in his statement, a possibility to reach him like she had tried for quite some time and not succeeded.

„Does this mean you will stop to accept defeat, too?"

He stared at her, incredulously. She had surprised him, that much was obvious, and she took a step closer to underline her question.

He avoided her gaze.

„I once did."

She nodded.

„I know. But that is not the question."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then retreated back to safer ground, not speaking, a frown plastered on his features. She wondered, if she had gone too far.

„I am sorry", she said. „I overstepped."

Still, he remained silent, and she retreated, step by step, towards the stairs, and, padding through the water, she almost missed his quiet words.

„Maybe not."

She froze.

„Maybe you are right", he continued, still softly. Slowly, he rose his head, looking at her, but his gaze flickered, as if he were unable to meet her on even ground. „I..." He swallowed, looking away again, his fists clenching and unclenching. Susannah felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, of worry, and as quickly as she could with her shoulder burning, she stepped back to the bars.

„James...?"

He flinched as if she had whipped him, then clenched his fists, straightened his back and took two steadying breaths. When he met her gaze, his eyes were almost impassive, the tempest hidden well, and his voice carefully measured.

„I thank you... for your concern", he said, with only the slightest halting in his voice. „It is not necessary, though."

Something in his eyes was pleading with her, and Susannah understood. How alike they were, in a way, in their fears.

But she had to leave fear behind her.

Softly, she placed her hand through the bars, a feather touch of her fingers on his, and a muscle twitched in his face as he met her wide-eyed gaze. Her heart was racing, but with all her force of will she finished the movement.

„I will see you when we meet her", she said, softly, but he only stared at her, struck dumb. She turned around and almost fled, hurrying up the stairs, wondering, why fate had chosen the most inconvenient of moments to show her a window into a world, that could and would never be constructed for her.

* * *

Meanwhile, as Susannah sat down in Sparrow's cabin again, trembling with turmoil, pain and exhaustion, James cowered on the floor of the brigg, staring at his hand.

And wondering, how something so fragile and invisible could leave such a trail of fire on his weather-hardened skin.

* * *


	57. Ancient magic

A/N: Oh my god! What a bunch of reviews! Okay, I'm going to reward you for it with a new chapter... catching up to the german version

Variable star: Yeah, I know about my comma issue... it just happens, no matter how hard I try... I'm glad, though, that you like my story :-)

Savvy: I've been thinking long and hard about killing Anamaria, I confess. In the end, I opted for it, for a number of reasons: Susannah has to move out of everyone's shadow to learn to stand up for herself; I had trouble envisioning Anamaria's role in the upcoming story. She's just too cool to be a simple sidekick going along with the flow. Wouldn't do her justice, you see? ;-) As for Jack knowing Susannah as Lucilla - you may point to a slip of mine there. I have to reread the chapter, but I think, he always called her Lucilla, didn't he? I have kind of 'forgotten' for him to have a relevation concerning Susannah's real name, but on the other hand, he does not know Susannah Delanney, and since in Tortuga, hardly any one goes by their real name (including, if you ask me, Jack Sparrow), this would maybe just earn a curious eyebrow, and that is it...

**Chapter 46: Ancient magic**

„Jack, this cannot be."

The pirate captain turned around from his post, where he had surveyed the lowering of the small boats, and saw Susannah standing right before him, sunspotted nose upright, arms crossed before her, face set. She glared at him defiantly and Jack Sparrow, not without some small measure of pleasure, thought to see something of the courage of Elizabeth Swann deep within her eyes.

„Ah, the light of my day", he said, with a charming smile. He still found it difficult to judge the behaviour of the seamstress, swinging between defiant courage and demure care, yet, he thought he began to see a pattern, like a peach fruit, soft and sweet on the outside, while if one dug down deep enough, one would meet with resistance, and an unyielding one at that. There was, as much as he loathed to admit it, something of Tia Dalma in her. „What is it, that meets with your displeasure?"

„You must bring him with us, when we are going to her", she demanded. „Bring him in chains, if that calms you, but bring him with us. He is part of this, as much as we are. Like it or not."

„I most definitely don't like it", he replied. „You see, that man is a loose cannon, when he is at his best. While now..."

„He is what you make him", she retorted sharply. „And the other way round, maybe. But you have seen the ghost. You really want her roaming around? It is your world, that is standing at stake as well as his."

He let it linger for a moment, thoroughly amused by her fierceness. And then, as she raised a brow, he clapped his hands, leisurely, in an ironic applause.

„Bravo, bravo, my spirited one." Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but he did not give her the time to find an answer. „What do you think. Of course I will bring him with us. We wouldn't want him to miss out on our very special lady, would we?"

Her eyes remained suspicious, but then, there was not really anything that she could do.

* * *

It was night when they came to fetch him, and the ship had lain anchor for a little while, the sound of the activities on deck only dimly reaching him in his prison. Two men of Sparrow's crew opened the door and allowed him to pass, to mount up the first ladder, then the second, to be greeted by cool air and a starry night, the moon near full. Silence engulfed the deck, and James Norrington took his time to look around, at the faces around him, some bearing anger, some bearing fear, some just blank, for lack of understanding or sentiment. More than one hand was lying on a weapon. So they deemed him dangerous. He would have almost smiled, grimly.

Good.

The crew stood in half circle enclosing the exit from the belly of the ship, ending at the rail, where, deep in the night, he thought he could see the outlines of an island. Sparrow was waiting at the rail, and so was Susannah, silently bathed in moonlight, a frown plastered on her face. He measured her with his gaze, torn between worry and the revelation that none of his thoughts concerning her, none of the sentiments he had tried to quench so carefully, had diminished over time.

She was holding herself with care. She was still hurt.

Slowly he stepped up to them and saw, that two boats were lowered into the water, bobbing softly on the waves. In one of them was lying a bundle of roughly human form, bearing the size, shape and black hair of Leonora Halvery, wriggling softly.

Susannah, standing next to him, looked towards the island with glazed eyes. Fever. Had he seen any possibility of success, he would have tried to bring her to rest.

"We are going to her", she said, softly.

"Will you manage?" He could not forgive himself the question, and she closed her eyes, placing steadying hands on the rail, before she turned her head towards him.

"I have no choice. None of us have."

He was lost in the depth of her dark eyes. Lost, without map, in unchartered waters, he felt a very brief and very intense sense of panic. She was beautiful, he realized, maybe conciously for the first time.

Abandoning reason, he placed his hand on her cold fingers, as if trying to warm or steady them. His heart missed a beat.

"Rely on me", he said, grateful for an almost steady voice. And, against all reason, after a moment's hesitation, he saw her nodding slowly. Time stopped.

And then, Jack Sparrow coughed.

"Ah, while I hate to interrupt this… I think we are running out of time… and our guest is running out of patience."

In the boat, Leonora Halvery had managed to get rid of the cloth hiding her face. And her glare that met with the three standing at the rail spoke volumes.

* * *

James Norrington had, never in his life, beheld anything even remotely comparable to their voyage towards Tia Dalma's home. They were travelling up a stream in two boats, rowed by Jack's crewmen, Sparrow, Leonora and the dead form of Anamaria in one, himself and Susannah in the other.

The stars were reflected from the water and the forest to both sides of the stream was silent, as if every creature inside were holding its breath. Susannah was sitting close to him in the small boat, her dirty skirts brushing his leg, and for a moment, he thought of recoiling, for the sake of propriety, or to pay hommage to the sudden surge of panic that ran through him, but of course, there was no way of doing this. Yet, he stiffened, when she raised her head to look at the stars, inevitably leaning closer to him, her shoulder brushing his, her black curls only inches away from his face.

She watched, for some time, while he did not dare to move, maybe because he was not sure whether she was aware of what she was doing, maybe because, for all impropriety it symbolized, he did not want her to leave, and he was still torn, heart racing, between tides, when she spoke, softly.

"We are in time, still."

"What do you mean?" His voice was rough, and the words came out quickly, but apparently she did not mind. She raised her good arm to the sky, her head coming closer to his, tilting towards him.

"The snake", she outlined a constellation that had nothing to do with any constellation known to him. "And the triangulum." Three stars in the Plough. "Seperated by the moon. As long as this remains, she will not touch us directly."

Her eyes were gleaming with fever and her cheeks, despite the paleness of the rest of her face, were glowing. It was madness dragging her out like this, but deep down, James Norrington also knew, that there was no one aboard the Pearl that could be relied on helping her.

Maybe this was different for Tia Dalma.

So he attributed her strange behaviour to her fever and remained, just where he was, trying to fill his promise to give her something to rely on.

In the darkness, far off, there were lights, peeking through the forest. First one, then three, then many, a whole sea of them, spreading out before them in darkness like a starry carpet fallen from the sky. And when they approached, they saw natives, many of them, standing waist-deep in the water, sitting on branches, carrying torches and candles, watching their approach silently, without a single word, as the boats soundlessly glided on towards the cabin, that was standing in the stream, windows alight, a lone figure standing on the balcony and looking down to them, motionlessly.

She radiated power in a way he had never thought possible. What he had, in rare moments, thought to see in Susannah's eyes was here open for everyone to feel, and with a certainty that he would not acknowledge, even in front of himself, he knew, that it was Ancient Magic, in the purest sense of the word, and it was now, at the peak of its power.

"She scares me…" A whisper close to his ear, voicing, what he thought, what everyone around him thought, brought to sound only because Susannah was only partially master of her senses, and because she felt even more acutely what was lain out before them.

"She is siding with us", he replied, and, though it was meant as reassurance, it came out more of a question than he would like to admit.

"She is siding with herself", Susannah said in a dreamy tone, that he thought he would attribute to the times, where she was acting on impulse, her instincts speaking rather than her mind, caused by fever, fear or influence. "She is the tide", she continued, "and we are the driftwood. She will not ask, whether we want to be cast upon the sand."

He did not know, what to answer to this, and so he only watched their approach, nearing the woman on the veranda, who was holding herself with the grace and majesty of a queen, center and goal of the unreal situation surrounding them, giving them a cautious welcome into her kingdom.

* * *

As Jack Sparrow looked up, he saw her face was carved in stone.

None of the glitters were there, that had in other times given her form a charming touch, none of the playful smiles.

Just steel.

He felt a twitch in his guts, suddenly remembering, that she was a very – very – powerful thing to meet, even worse to cross, and was suddenly very glad that he had indeed succeeded in bringing Leonora to her. Still, some feeble part within him cringed at the thought of finding himself on the wrong side of her.

"Bring her to me."

He gestured to Maroo and Cotton to comply, and they lifted – with difficulty - the squirming form of Leonora Halvery up onto the platform. Out of nowhere, an old man appeared on the balcony, helping them with surprising strength in aged hands. Sparrow followed reluctanty, dreading what was to come.

On the platform he turned around and saw Lucilla, unsteadily climbing the ladder as well. She was, indeed ill.

Concern lightened the eyes of the Commodore, who would follow her.

With a disgusted snort, Sparrow turned back.

That particular moth really had a way of finding convenient flames to burn in.

He followed Tia Dalma, shooing Maroo and Cotton forward bearing their struggling freight. Inside her cottage, the world was not what it had been before.

Candles were scattered all about in a strange pattern that he could not discern, the smell of incense hanging in the air.

The table in the middle of the room, usually littered with items, with origins varying from indistinctive to inexplicable, had been cleared to reveal bondings at either end – or maybe they had been attached for this special purpose. Jack avoided to think about which service these had done already for the witch woman and fixed his gaze on her, standing on one side of the table, hands placed on it possessively, as she watched the others file in.

The old native that had helped bring Leonora up was standing on the other side, face equally unreadable, any expression hidden beneath wrinkles and sagging skin.

The spanish woman was placed on the table, and upon a command of Tia Dalma, Maroo and Cotton secured her feet, then her hands, while Marty, who had come in on the second boat with Lucilla and the Commodore, held her down by simply sitting on her.

"Out."

Her voice was as cold as northern wind, and Jack was about to turn on his heel, relieved, when she intercepted, in a tone infinitely more frosty.

"Not you."

It was clear, of course, who should go and who not, and so, Jack Sparrow found himself, all too soon – and very displeased by this – in the room, alone with Tia Dalma, Norrington and Lucilla.

The witch woman walked past them, looking at each of them in turn. Sparrow did his best not to cringe, to stick to an air of unconcerned nonchalance, but it was hard under the black steel of her gaze. Norrington was doing a better job of it, he observed, there was not a muscle twitching in his face. As for Lucilla, looking frail and pale, she displayed open weariness, her worry open for everyone to see.

There was no way that one would ever make a good pirate.

"So we are assemblied for the first time", Tia began to speak, turning to all of them. "Earlier than I have wanted, but that is not to be helped. All of you know why they are here, even if", and with this she turned to Jack, "they pretend otherwise."

She took a bowl from a shelf behind her, dripping in a few drops of water from a small flask. The sound they made, dripping, was strange, deep, as if there were more water inside the bowl than was possible due to its shape, and Jack felt a deep unease creeping into his guts. He would have liked nothing more than to run for it, but he knew better what he was coping with than to react this foolishly. Whatever it was that was expecting him in here, it was less bad than an angry Tia Dalma at his heels.

Humming softly to herself in a strange, dissonant tune, Tia Dalma lightened four candles, three of white, and one in deep red, and as she put fire to that last one, there was a muffled cry from Leonora, who was buckling against the bonds with surprising ferocity. For an instance, Jack felt something akin to pity at the madness raging in the spanish woman's eyes. He certainly would not have liked to share places with her.

When he looked back to the witch, she was standing before Lucilla, the bowl in her right, and a knife in her left, handing the blade to the seeress who looked at it for a moment.

Then, taking a deep breath, Lucilla closed her left hand around it and gave the knife a sharp tug, drawing blood. She winced, a small noise of pain escaping her lips, while the blood from her hand was dripping in the bowl making soft, deep noises, until Tia Dalma nodded.

"Enough."

She continued to the Commodore, whose face was stony as he watched the scene. Tia Dalma handed him the knife as well.

He exchanged a gaze with Lucilla, obviously hesitating, and the seeress nodded, so that, after another instant, he did as she had done, adding his own blood to Tia Dalma's charm.

And then she came to Jack. He knew well enough, that blood was an essential ingredient in many of her charms, but he also knew that in handing her the essence of his life, he handed her a power over him that he would have preferred not to leave in her hands.

It did not seem, as if she were giving him a choice, though, and if there was nothing to be helped, then the deed could as well be done gracefully.

Jack smiled, confidently, and cut his palm, blood dripping into the water, but almost instantly, he realized, that this was not comparable to any injury he might have suffered.

There was something about the blood that left his body, a surge, as if something of himself, a breath or a sigh, were leaving with it, as if the mixture in the bowl were now, in a very, very strange way, an extension of his own body.

He could almost feel the swirling, could certainly feel the tension.

Tia Dalma picked up the first candle and again strode to Lucilla. The seeress stretched her hands out to receive the light, and while Tia Dalma started to draw signs on it using the mixed blood and water, she spoke in soft words.

"The fealty of a friend…", she began, as Jack realized, that, if by coincidence or Tia Dalma's guiding, they were standing in a triangle around the table.

The witch continued the sentence of her apprentice.

"Does not desert in the darkest of times, does never forget the duties to man. Does never waver, never doubt, does stand unhesitating until the end of times."

Jack felt a sense of foreboding, like drums nearby, and Leonora Halvery was looking around with wild eyes, hissing, then whimpering, as if in pain.

Tia Dalma continued to Norrington, in whose eyes Jack now could read confusion, dawning understanding and concern in equal measures. At least, apparently he knew what Tia Dalma expected him to say.

"The stubbornness of resistance…"

Tia nodded, acknowledging the gesture. Her nimble fingers drew signs and charms.

"Will not be surmounted by unsurpassable odds. Will still believe in a new dawn. Will never forget, that with strength anything – everything can be done."

Leonora bucked, her fingers clenching around the bondages, biting her lip, drawing blood. Jack felt the foreboding grow stronger as Tia stepped up to him, and the ritual repeated itself, his call of the name, and her call of the signs, and Jack felt his very bones weakening, a frightening notion of dwindling, like a breath with which something more than air left his body, loosing the strength of a frenzied sprint in the matter of a twinkle of an eye.

He felt dizzy.

Tia had moved up to the head of the table, placing her candle there, before she propped up both her hands to the right and left side of Leonora's head.

The woman was wriggling, straining against the bonds, but her eyes were open, drawn by Tias gaze.

"Assemblied the four", Tia whispered. "There is no room in here for those, who fear it."

Leonora hissed as if in nameless anger, but Tia continued.

"Long ago, you made a promise", she said, her gaze fixed on Leonora's dark eyes. "Do you still stand to it?"

The spanish woman opened her lips to speak, but something apparently was holding her back. Expressions haunted each other on her face, anger, rage, fear, concentration, a caleidoscope starting all over again. Mother and daughter fought a war in the frail, struggling body, but Jack felt, that Tias gaze was tipping the scales, feeding on his strength and on that of them. With an almost tender movement she smeared the rest of the mixture of blood and water onto Leonora's forehead, and this seemed to finally break the dam.

"No", she screamed, shaking violently, and Jack felt another surge of power running through him, a lightning striking and then travelling to the ground. He tumbled, took a few steps backwards, bumping into a shelf, before he lost the fight and blackness claimed him.

The last thing before his concience fled, was a voice, tired, drained, yet mustering a considerable amout of annoyance.

"It was about time this happened."

* * *

Ten minutes later, five, after Jack Sparrow had regained conciousness well enough to be able to look around, he was sure of several important truths concerning his situation and everyone around.

First, the former Commodore Norrington was doing a very splendid show of somebody who had no idea what was good for him. Lucilla had, apparently like himself, briefly lost conciousness, and the Commodore, looking dead on his feet as well, was just helping her stand again, looking a curious mixture between concern and embarassment. In the eyes of the seeress, he remarked, what had been probably the key to her quick adaptions to the most various surroundings, an alertness, that was almost disquieting, grasping the situation in the twinkle of an eye.

Even Tia Dalma looked tired in her own way, having lost some of her vibrant strength, and Jack could openly see the toll that the confrontation had also taken on her.

And the last – and most surprising – revelation, was, that Leonora Halvery was a considerable pain in the ass.

She had, to his utter surprise, recovered more quickly than any of them – granted, she had done nothing more than just to lie there. By the time he felt at least remotely fit to take part in what was happening again, she was already sitting up and had managed the miracle to shove some order into her tattered and torn gown. Few, skillfull tugs had brought some attractiveness to the black curls that framed her pale face, and she looked much more unruffled than she had any right to be.

She even found the nerve to glare at Tia Dalma, and while Jack slowly came to his senses again, he realized, that she was already discussing with the witch woman, claiming violently that something needed to be done concerning what she called 'that monster'.

She even went as far as suggesting different scenarios, one wilder than the other. She definitely had, as Jack admitted, wincing, some Elizabeth Swann quality about her, but where Elizabeth would have demanded justice, what Leonora asked for sounded suspiciously like revenge.

Tia Dalma raised a hand to stop her tirade.

"Right. And it will be done. In time. Out. Leave me alone with her. We will speak later of this."

She waved her hands in an offhanded manner, while still nailing Leonora with her gaze, and Lucilla, who was by nature most used to her whims and commands, obeyed, followed, after a moment, by Norrington. Jack afforded himself the luxury to stay just long enough to begin to annoy the which, before he exited with grand gesture, more aloof then he felt.

In fact, every nerve hurt in his body.

The silent native was awaiting them in a boat in the river, steered by a younger man of his tribe, bringing them to the settlement Jack knew was one of those populated by Tia Dalma's tribe, deep in the jungle, between towering trees and rustling bushes.

The trip was short, but seemed like eternity, since now, that excitement faded into nothing, exhaustion caught up with him, an inhuman fatigue that surpassed everything that he even would have expected after his time on the island.

Yet, he knew, that the ancient magic had this effect. There was no salvation to it, except in sleep.


	58. Sleeping beauty

Sleeping beauty

A/N: Because I am a nice spirit – here's the next one

**Chapter 57:**

**Sleeping beauty**

Sleep.

The word echoed through his mind, whispering, beseeching, as if it had a life of his own, a meaning of his own, beyound the parade of mere consonants, surrounding a vowel.

Sleep.

He was tired beyound words, exhausted to the bone, his thoughts fluttering incoherently around that one, sole word.

Sleep, she had said.

The irony of it would have made him laugh, had he not been so tired, so overwrought.

And now he was here, lying in a cot of leaves and straw, in a native cottage on a godforsaken island, curled up on his side, trying to find rest.

Which was, of course, literally impossible.

Somewhere on the other side of the room, Jack Sparrow was sleeping – thankfully mostly silent – but closer to him, face turned towards him in oblivion, Susannah was lying, closed eyes half-hidden behind strands of black curls, her hand lying, relaxedly, a few inches from her nose away. Her shoulder was wrapped in an aromatic mix of various spices, a medicine that the old shaman had applied to her wound, wordlessly.

James had recognized him as the medicine man of the tribe that had sheltered him after the loss of the Dauntless.

But he had been too exhausted to even feel surprised…

She was breathing softly, in deep sleep, and she was so close that he would have only needed to stretch out his hand to touch her.

Much too close…

He had fallen, hard, harder perhaps than before, for while it was quite bold for a man of his position to yearn for the daughter of someone who - even though he was something akin to a father to him – was high above his own station, this was different. When yearning for Elizabeth had been daring, this infatuation was plainly insane.

Whatever she was, whatever she would become, this was not fitting, highly improper, and, on top of it, quite impossible. A seamstress was a commoner, and what she had become was… dubious to say the least.

He squinted, watching her face.

What was it, that drew him to her? The common destiny, as the witch woman would have put it, two fish in the same bowl, so to speak? The companionship of two people in the same disgrace?

Random images, as if in answer to his silent question, her bewildered looks, her rare, careful smiles, more precious even, since they were seldom to be seen.

There was something about her, a soft kindness, that he had seen her display only to him, pity maybe, but maybe not. How she had shied back, time and again, only to come to him once more, using every inch of force of will to overcome whatever it was, that was chasing her away.

She was an enigma. The smiling sphinx bearing only burning riddles in her eyes.

He wondered, what would happen if he failed to unravel them.

He wondered, what would happen, if he succeeded.

His eyes were fixed on her features, as if trying to etch them into his memory, watching her like he never could have done, if she had been awake, returning his gaze. There would have been no explanation for his fascination in watching a woman sleep, watching her sleep. The way the first pale light of beginning dawn danced over pale skin and pale freckles, the way her lips were parted, just a little, to allow her breath admittance into her body, the way she seemed relaxed now, deep in sleep, in oblivion, for once not burdened with worry.

Sleep, he whispered, silently, like a pleading. Sleep, so I may watch you some more.

Sleep, he repeated, at the same time, over and over, not knowing, whether it would not save him, were he able to, now, when he was overwrought and could not tell dream from reality any more, just fall asleep, but rest would not come as long as she was so close, as long as he could watch her unguarded, for once without having to answer for this weakness.

Sleep, Susannah. Just this once…

She was dreaming now, he guessed, seeing a soft frown plastered on her face, the slightest bit of unrest stirring in her peaceful figure. The fingers of her outstretched hand curled and released again, a movement without force, but still, it showed that her sleep was less calm, less rested.

He wondered what she was thinking of.

In the pale morning light, the sky a dark green as the first sign of the new day, surreality covering the scenery like a blanket, he asked himself what would happen, if he were to touch her cheek, to smooth away the frown on her face.

He wondered if he was sleeping, dreaming. Because if this were reality, then he would not be doing this, would not be raising his hand, trembling, to place it on her cheek, hoping, that she would continue to sleep, and that he would continue to dream.

Her skin was soft and cool, her jaw clenched, but relaxing under his tentative fingers, as if she were sensing in her sleep what he was doing, and he froze, for a moment, frightened by this reaction, but she slept on and he moved his fingers, carefully, smoothing away the frown, trailing across the high cheekbones, the freckled nose.

He felt peaceful, the part of him, that distantly screamed at the immorality of what he was doing, growing faint and far away.

Sleep…

She grew calm, her features relaxing once more. And he felt his eyelids finally growing heavy, as if through the connection, her calm would find its way to him, as well.

* * *

It was, on the whole, quite a trial for Leonora Halvery to comply to the strange wishes of Tia Dalma. Granted, that she had always been the most patient person of the Halvery trio, and granted, that she knew very well, that she should be thankful for having been rescued from the influence of what had once been her mother, but Tia was trying her patience to its utter ends.

Now, that she had been freed of the ever present influence in her mind, the whispers, the calls, the urges that came not out of her own needs, but out of an overwhelming forcing, that had been difficult to battle.

She had done, what she could. Switching between demure compliance and open rebellion at the oddest of moments, once fighting, once drifting, trying to wriggle through every loophole she could find.

She was not sure, whether it was by her own efforts that she was here now, but she was determined to find out.

Just as she was determined to have her revenge for her imprisonment. She was not easily to be captured, and she did not take it lightly.

Yet, Tia Dalma had refused to hear her out, at first, had sent her to a sleep that would not come, and the night had dragged on, followed by a grey, murky morning that brought some measure of sleep but none of peace.

She had never been good at having nothing to do and always been good at finding things to occupy herself with, and so the late morning found her strolling around the cottage, wondering at the strange variation of items that Tia Dalma had collected here.

It was in the first hours of the afternoon, when the others arrived again. The navy commander, still looking the most tired of them all, keeping apart from the rest, as if, even in disgrace, he were stations above them. The girl, who had obviously earlier occupied some station in Port Royal – Leonora remembered dimly to have seen her once at the governor's house – and who was now, rested, watching the scenery around her with burning alertness. The pirate captain who had spent days on the island with her, looking unruffled as she would have expected him to be. Placing much importance on show, he was, but he was also not easily to be conquered, in his own way, and that was something Leonora respected.

She had treaded windy paths herself. Like her mother had always said, it was the goal that counted, not the way.

They seated themselves around the table that had been cleared of debris while she had slept and Tia Dalma looked at her expectantly, without any protocol, introduction or any other hint as to what she wanted of her. Not, that it was necessary. And not, that Leonora would have needed encouragement. The words came to her, all by themselves, like a pent-up tide that was now finally free to course.

„I left England, as I hate to say, in something of a hurry"; she started, not quite at the beginning, but almost. She was not willing to reveal everything, never would be, and hoped to distract her listeners by making a charming tale out of what had actually been a gruesome nightmare. She knew the rules of this craft, the careful smiles, the variations of tone.

Her mother had been a master in this, and she was, in so many things, her pupil, a paler copy of hers.

„I had fallen into misfortune after the sudden death of my mother and father, which forced me to leave England for different shores. The decision for the Caribbean, I hate to say, was quite random. I boarded the first ship that would take me, and luck would have it, that it would be sailing for the colonies. It might also have been", she replied, with a carefully measured shy smile, „that I hoped, that in the melting pots of foreign countries, it would have been easier for me not to always be ‚the spanish'." She shrugged, peeking at her audition as to the impact of her words.

Norrington was frowning, but she thought to see something akin to bad conscience in his eyes. Susannah nodded softly, as if she meant – or faked – understanding, while Tia Dalma's face was completely unreadable.

Jack Sparrow, however, seemed highly amused.

This would have to do for a reaction for now. Leonora had to admit, that she had had easier audiences.

„This was, what brought me aboard the ‚Mary of the seas', a trade vessel on its way first towards the Carribean, then through the Fretum Magellanicum towards the eastern colonies with final destination Singapore. I figured, I could get off wherever it pleased me, wherever I would find a place suited for me. Unfortunately, I never got this far."

She smiled a whistful smile in rememberance. She had liked it aboard the ‚Mary of the seas', with their courteous captain, and the friendly crew, even though most of them had been thorougly boring persons. It had been nice to feel safe – for a change. Leonora had always known to guard her steps, and these few precious weeks had been a possibility to lower her attention a bit. Which had maybe also in part led to disaster.

„I do not claim to be an expert in naval matters", she continued, „but we encountered a severe storm on our voyage which had apparently brought us off course and robbed us of most of our water supplies. The captain was unable to find the course again – I think it was too clouded for this – and there was no wind, so that we drifted along the ocean for days, not knowing where we were, and almost out of water."

She winced a little, remembering the difficult days. She would have never thought before to be able to appreciate a single drink, and she had maybe not even suffered worst, due to the courtesy of the captain. It had been an educational experience, of sorts, and a frightening one at that. She did not like to remember, how everything blurred into nothingness, how she embarrassed herself with weakness and delusion, near the end.

„When finally", she said, smoothing over the gorier details, „we saw an island off in the mist, we were not even sure, that this was real, but it was our only chance. We landed there, most of us mere shadows of what they had been, including me."

She winced slightly before continuing.

„It was a pair of islands, two mountains covered in forest and mist, in the middle of nowhere. The islands seemed very much alike, but I could not even remember which one we landed on."

„Uh…"

She turned towards the speaker, surprised to find, that of all people, Jack Sparrow had uttered the sound. He had contorted his face in slight disgust, obviously remembering something vastly unpleasant. When he became aware that she had stopped talking, looking at him quizzically, he did his best to shrug nonchalantly.

„Oh well, just continue", he said, waving a bored hand. Leonora nodded and continued, keeping this incident in mind for further notice.

„Very well", she continued. „I do not remember everything that happened on this island. I was delirious, I think, and not fully in command of my senses. I remember wandering through the forest in search for a spring – I cannot reconstruct, why I was on my own and not with a member of the crew, but maybe we were just beyound taking care of anyone else, all of us."

She fell silent for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. She had planned on acting the damsel in distress, in equal measures frightened, angry, and with a charming courage shining through tears. This had never failed to secure protection.

Yet, to her utter annoyance, talking about that fateful day was, indeed, not as easy as she would have thought. She had never been easily frightened, or shied away, but it seemed, as if the last weeks and months had left their mark on her as well.

Her mother would be ashamed of her.

Yet, she thought, maybe it was for the better. True distress was certainly better than a fake one, as long as she managed to keep it in check.

„As I wondered, he was suddenly standing there. A native man, barely dressed, looking at me. I did not see him at first, blending in with the jungle around me – all that green, I thought, there must be a spring somewhere – and when I found he was observing me, I did not think it odd."  
Her lips twitched in wry amusement.

„Now of course, in the light of circumstances, maybe I should have."

She took a deep breath, lacing her fingers, before she continued, not looking at anyone, relying on the impact of her voice alone.

„He beckoned me, then, and I complied, coming to him. He talked to me, in my own tongue, first only in bits and pieces, but better as we spoke. I know, that I should have wondered about this, but again, I did not. Of course, when I realized that he understood what I was saying, I asked him to help me find some water. He replied that he could do this, if I trusted him."

She shuddered, remembering, and from the sharp intake of breath came from the direction of Susannah Delanney, at least the girl had understood what this meant.

„It was", she said, taking refunge in cool sarkasm, „of course one of the worst ideas I have had in my whole life."

She sighed.

„It is difficult to say, what happened, then. I knew instantly, that I made a mistake, for I inexplicably knew that I was… trapped. There was a connection… to the creature before me, and there was constantly the voice, in my mind, like a murmur, never gone…"

She took a moment to compose herself, and now, she did not leave her head hanging for the sake of the effect, but because she would not be seen vulnerable, not here, not ever.

„I hate to say, that, especially in my weakened state, it could make me do almost everything it wanted. And more than that. Often, I found it hard to remember, who I was, what I was doing. It was quite like a continuation of my fevered state before, with brief moments of clarity when it was… otherwise engaged. I got something to drink, so much of the promise was kept. And then, we went back to the rest of the crew, who were scattered in the forest, wandering like I was. It was reading my thoughts, my memories, like a book, bending it to its will, asking questions that I could not refuse to answer. It learned, who the captain was, and that its crew were loyal to him. Thus, we were looking for Almington, and when it found him, it did the same to him, as it did to me, though in another way, I suspect."

„In another way?" Susannah Delanney intercepted, frowning.

Leonora flashed her a grin that was almost predatory.

„Unlike him, I fought back. Which was, why she spent more… attention on me. His leech was longer. Alas, he had no clue of what had happened."

She failed to hide, that this fact made her proud in a way. She had succeeded in demanding not little from her opponent. „Almington", she tried to find words for it, „was… well, not willing, but not resisting either. It was more subtle with him than it was with me. And even more subtle with the rest of the crew. I think, in the beginning, she just whispered of things that were not true, influenced them into believing they remembered incidents they did not. I think, it was then, that it decided to take on the form of my mother. It had learned, from my thoughts, that she was powerful, in a way, and in addition to that a person that would…", she allowed herself a tiny, dry smile, „get away with quite a lot of eccentries. It seemed useful to her."

Tia Dalma nodded, as if she were by no means surprised by this.

„After a while"; Leonora continued, „I found out that in a way, this control ran both ways." She had, during the night, debated with herself whether she should share that part or not, but she had finally decided to do it. It made her valuable in the eyes of the others, and in her currend, precarious position value would not be a bad thing to go by. „Not, that I could actualy control her, but I… learned things. I learned, what was surprising her, what was worrying her. And I tried to escape. I sent notes to the Governor hinting towards my situation – but he was so besotten with her that I had no success in this, and when he gave her his trust, it was too late anyway. I tried to run away several times – even though after a time I gave that up, because I understood, that she would have been able to reach me across distances as well."

She shrugged.

„And then you came and brought me away from this. I think, she is very angry because of it."

Tia Dalma smiled.

„I hope so."

Jack Sparrow winced.

„Just a small comment, if I may, my lady", he replied, looking at the witch, „this may be somewhat a strange remark to your ears but… is it not… imprudent, to be glad at her fury? I mean, she is…" He spread out his hands, lacking words.

Leonora, a trifle annoyed, raised a brow.

„Who is angry, makes mistakes", she retorted with cool rationality, one of the credos of her mother. She had never feared inspiring strong emotions of any kind. It almost every time yielded information, and mostly brought an advantage to those, who still were able to think clearly and without scorn.

„Indeed." The dry tone belonged to James Norrington who had listened to her words attentively and was now thoughtfully tipping his fingers on the table. „If I read your meaning correctly, then we could use this to our advantage."

„She might loosen the grasp on those she controlled, wouldn't she?" suggested Susannah Delanney, hands folded before her.

„This could be a nasty surprise in battle indeed"; Jack Sparrow concluded with a broad smile. „Just imagine the situation." He chuckled.

Tia Dalma nodded.

„Yes. Yes."

She turned around to look at each other in turn, her dark eyes alight.

„This is exactly what I mean", even though to none at the table, it was precisely clear, what she was thinking about. „Leonora", she continued. „I take it you learned a lot from her. Her capabilities, her technique, her hopes, her plans."

„Yes", she replied. „But she was aware of that link. She may act accordingly. Surely she knows where I am, and that the control has broken."

„True enough", Tia Dalma admitted, „but still, there are some things that are not so easily undone. And beyound that, it is good to know, that you have taken so much with you on your journey." But before the spanish woman even had the time to take pride in that statement, she was interrupted.

„A focus…" Susannah Delanney spoke before thinking better of it, voicing the idea that hit her like a hammer. „She could be our focus."

Leonora frowned. She had hoped, that her days of direct involvement were at an end, and that she could return to her scheming behind the scenes, but that had probably been wishful thinking. She did not like the idea of being a pawn, but nothing was gained or lost by taking on a direct position now, and thus she just looked at Tia Dalma, quizzically.

„Maybe", the witch woman said, „it will come to this. We will see."

„Would it not be wise", James Norrington brought the discussion back to the former point, „to try and take advantage of her current weakness… in some way?" He sounded only a trifle unsure, trying to apply military tactics to a terrain that he was much more unfamiliar with. „If she is, like you said, hurt, or maybe even retreating, maybe even loosing her grip on things… should we not be able to use that against her?"

„You do your tutors credit", Tia Dalma praised. „And there is truth in your words, but it is not possible now. If we are to fight her, we have to fight her on more than one base. She has grown powerful with time, finding allies and pressing them into her service. If she created a bond between herself and the governor, then there is also a weaker bond between her and those, that are loyal to him. In the navy, it is even worse. The sworn obedience is strong magic, even if you do not realize it. She has worldly allies. So we must strive to find the same."

„Well", Leonora added, wrily. „We have the scourge of the Caribbean, that should outweight Port Royal military, shouldn't it?"

„I have neither ship nor crew at the moment, madam"; Norrington reminded her, gently, but not without edge. Tia Dalma however, seemingly satisfied, leaned back in her chair.

„Not at the moment, Commodore, that is true. But that can be helped."

She frowned, for a moment.

„How many ships are there in Port Royal at the moment?"

Norrington composed himself.

„There is the ‚Edinburgh', a ship-of-the line, heavily armed, but not as heavily as the ‚Dauntless', in firepower maybe comparable to the ‚Endeavor', which is the flaggship of the Trading Company in these waters, as you may know. Second, the two frigates ‚Prometheus' and ‚Victoria', the former of which is a quick strike vessel akin to the ‚Interceptor', while the latter is more armed and a bit more heavy, somewhere in the middle of the two others."

„So three in all"; Tia Dalma concluded. „The ‚Mary of the seas', which is, of course, not a warship by nature, and the Black Storm, of course, although…", she smiled smugly, „maybe we can see to this."

„On our side, there is only the Black Pearl… for now. So, maybe we should try and tip the scales in our favour…"

„Just to be sure we understand each other correctly…"

James Norrington had placed his fingertips together, looking at the witch, his frown deepening. „We are talking about an attack on Port Royal."

Tia Dalma shrugged.

„Eventually."

His jaw tensed, and Leonora bit back a smile. It was quite obvious, that, disgrace nonewithstanding, James Norrington had a hard time accepting the story he found himself in.

„I see", he pressed out between clenched teeth and fell silent for the moment. His fingers, curling and uncurling on the table, however, belied his unrest.

„There will be no other way", Tia Dalma continued. „She does not easily give away what she once got into her clutches."

„That is definitely true", Leonora added, not without sarcasm. „So. What are we going to do?"

Tia Dalma frowned.

„I will think about it. And I will tell you. Until then, be our guest."

She rose and retreated to a room in the back of the house, a place, where even Susannah had up to now been forbidden to go.

And left her four minions clueless, as to how this strange situation should continue.

* * *

The day dragged on in lazy bits, and the fact, that he was tired beyound all measure did not make things better.

Jack Sparrow had retreated to the bank of the river, where most of his crew were sitting, passing away the time with banter, rum and rest. Leonora Halvery sat with them, and yet apart, gazing thoughtfully into the water, lost in musings of her own that he could fanthom only with difficulty. She had handled the circumstances admirably, her distress showing, but not overwhelming her, which made it clear for Norrington, why she had been able to resist her mother, in small parts at least. Her freedom was bought dear, but from the point of view of Tia Dalma, he could even begin to understand why she deemed her important.

He forbid himself to think about Gillette, whose life had been the highest price in the quest for Leonora Halvery's freedom.

Norrington was standing on the balcony, looking down into the murky water, that seemed grey under the cloudy sky, a world painted in green and grey, a dull, depressing sight before his eyes.

He was very tired, and exhausted beyound the mere strength of his body. Maybe, he wondered, this was a remnant of Tia Dalma's ceremony. He had been hard pressed to even take part in this, and the part of him, that remembered his solid, christian upbringing, the part of him, that still dismissed ghost and specters, had not been sure what to expect, but something had happened, for sure, and it had taken its toll on him as well.

And he felt uneasy about how he should go on. He had been drifting, more or less, and drifting, simply reacting had brought him in this position, the position of a renegade, a rogue, of someone, that only months before he had met with nothing but disdain.

There was a certain irony in it, and he appreciated it.

For a long time, he had had the feeling that he was moving in a bubble, a world, that was foreign to him, that existed in another dimension than the earlier life that he had known.

But to return to Port Royal would dispel that particular charm. And he was not sure, whether his trust in the supernatural ran this deep.

„Are you worried?"

He flinched. Tia Dalma was moving silently as a cat. She had stepped up to him without him even noticing, watching him with a friendly curiosity that reminded him of Susannah.

„Worried…" Despite himself, he laughed soundlessly, shaking his head, turning his gaze towards the muddy water. „I am not sure."

„Troubled, then", Tia said, precising what she meant. Despite her earlier moodiness she did not seem offended by his manner.

„That can be said, yes." An understandment, if he had ever seen one.

„Why?"

He was about to retort sharply, sarcastically, but something held him back, whether respect or desperation, he was not sure to tell.

„I am not altogether sure, that I feel comfortable attacking my own former port as a member of…" he shrugged, and she filled in the gap mercilessly.

„A pirate fleet?"

„Of sorts", he admitted. His gaze turned to Sparrow. How far he had fallen to side with someone like him. And what afterwards? If they succeeded? Jack Sparrow roaming around freely in Port Royal? He felt his stomach clench.

„You are worried about him?" Tia Dalma smiled motherly, placing a dirty hand on his shoulder. „Ah, but you should not. You are enemies. And always will be. Two faces of a coin. Two sides of a curtain." She shook her head. „No, navyman. This is not about how much you trust Sparrow. This is not even how much you trust me."

His curiosity peeked, he turned around to meet her pitch-black gaze and she smiled.

„It is about how much you trust her."

Her gaze wandered to something behind him, and when he turned, he saw Susannah, who had emerged from the cottage as well, thoughtfully gazing to the sky. The dim light threw shadows on her face and let her seem tired, but, as he realized with a start, in a pale way beautiful.

Tia Dalma's hand on his shoulder made him flinch once more.

„Bring her in"; she startled him out of his reverie. „I have something to tell you both."


	59. A hell of quite another making

Savvy: Well, to quote myself from chapter 29: Through a spying glas

__

He saw dark eyes, a gaze, that seemed tangible, not full of fear, but full of apprehension, and it was then, that he understood.

Lucilla.

She was with Sparrow.

But as his mind still was working on the implications of that, another resemblance struck, and he felt his body drained of his energy and strength, the winds knocked out of him by the sheer force of her gaze.

This peculiar gaze was singular, probably throughout the world, surely in the Carribbean.

Lucilla, the Tortuga seeress was Susannah Delanney of Port Royal.

That was right before the Dauntless was sunk by the Grey Storm, so he's been knowing the Lucilla/Susannah-duplicity for quite some time.

Glad you still like the story :-) (And hopefully that helped )

**Chapter 58**

**A hell of quite another making**

„I have decided", Tia Dalma said, when they were alone in the relative darkness of her cottage, „to take your advice."

James frowned at her statement.

„I beg your pardon?"

„You were right, in a way", she insisted, smiling. „The monster we are facing is wounded, and so is at least one of his minions, his most faithful one. We should take this as an opportunity to strike."

James raised an eyebrow but did not further comment on this, instead waiting for Tia Dalma to continue. She seemed to have a strike fort he dramatic, and, knowing several former superior officers of his who carried the same streak, he knew, that this type was not easily hurried.

„You heard her speaking of the islands in the mist. Yet, there is more to these islands, than meets the eye."

She took her time to continue to speak, watching her guests, who were, in Norrington's case, feigning indifference, in Susannah's not masking her open interest.

„First of all, these islands are very, very old. They may well be older than everything you know, dating back into a time where only the legends were alive, that you, Susannah, so skillfully know and you", she gazed at James, „so thoroughly ignore. The ghost we are hunting has been imprisoned there for almost just as long. Legends of the Gaiatu, who have lived there always, tell, that it was created for the sole purpose of keeping hidden what was lying beneath the mountain, and it is true, that not all of the seals that closed her prison could have been made by them, for it requires a craft they are not proficient with. So, the legends may be true or not, but fact is, that it has spent more time there than any of you could possibly imagine. And this island is where I need you to go."

James contemplated this new insanity for a moment and then decided to play along.

„To do what, exactly?"

Tia smiled.

„A number of things, hunter. First of all, the tribe of the Gaiatu has always been dear to me, dear to my heart. And naturally, I worry about their fate. Second, I want you to have been there. Both of you. You have to see it, to understand."

„With all due respect", Norrington said, doubtfully, „that is a trifle vague, is it not? Especially, if this place is indeed as dangerous as you say."

„Why not send Jack Sparrow?" Susannah supported his position, and he shot her a gaze that belied his surprise. „He has been there, hasn't he?"

Tia Dalma smiled.

„Very well done", she praised her pupil, as if she had solved a tricky calculation. „But no."

James shook his head. Talking to Tia Dalma was worse than talking to Susannah when it came to this strange story. Information was hard to go by, and sometimes so veiled that it was difficult to spot. But this particular bit he had recognized, and it peeked his curiosity.

„Jack Sparrow has been to the island?" he asked, therefore. „Why? When?"

Tia Dalma looked at them, questioningly, then, with a sigh, she shrugged.

„I might as well tell it", she said, „since it is not difficult to guess, knowing his nature. Sparrow has been to that island, drawn by the stories of what draws his kind – the stories of adventure and treasure. It could not be hidden – in fact, not even to the superiors of your military command, Norrington – that there was something on this island worth defending, since the Gaiatu were guarding it so fiercely. So Sparrow assembled a crew to find that mythical treasure that was talked about. He naturally was not shied off by the rumors of danger and death, and being the man he was, he came further than most, to his extreme misfortune.

He broke some of the seals that closed the prison, so that a fraction of the beast escaped. Luckily, by then, the Gaiatu found them and put a stop to their doings, but part of the damage had already been done."

Norrington's features hardened. This sounded very much like Jack Sparrow.

„So that was the last time it escaped", Susannah concluded, and Tia Dalma nodded.

„Naturally, he broke that part of the protection, that was closest to his heart. A part of the beast seeped through and took possession of him, which was, why the Gaiatu finally retreated and called for me. I sent an emissary and renewed the connection, with Sparrow as a new guardian."

„Sounds a bit like putting a fox in charge of the henhouse to me." Norrington was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. It was by no means the first time, when Jack Sparrow was put in a position of trust where he had, as far as James was concerned, no business being. Tia Dalma smiled, obviously amused.

„Believe it or not, he was scared enough by his experience to be prudent… by his standarts, anyway. And the breaking of the seals this time has not been his doing, either."

Norrington frowned.

„I am not sure that I know how it has been broken"; he placed the question carefully. Considering, that he himself had been something like a keeper for these secrets himself – unknowingly – he realized with a flash of panic that he could have done it himself, without realizing.

„The raid of Port Royal", Susannah intercepted, leaving him infinitely relieved. „My triangulum was broken, then."

„Yes", Tia Dalma hissed. „Barbossa's madness has driven more than just himself in the abyss…"

How true, James thought, wrily, having to admit, that his defeat and his descent had begun just there, just that very day, when in the morning Elizabeth fell from the parapet and in the night, the undead pirates had come. It was a strange turn of events, a strange row, like pearls, one lined up nicely next to the other, and all of them leading to him being here.

For a moment, he did not know, whether to laugh or weep, but he decided on neither, keeping his stern facade in place.

„So we are going to that mythical place Sparrow savaged not so long ago to do… what? You must forgive my ignorance", he continued, allowing a tiny portion of the irritation he felt to creep into his tone, „but to my ears this sounds dangerous at least, while I do not see a substantial benefit in it. Especially not in Miss Delanney travelling. Surely there are others who can check on the… Gaiatu."

„Ever the military man, aren't you, former Commodore?" He managed not to flinch at her words and the smile accompagning them was almost playful. „So I will give you something more to your liking." She bowed towards them, eyes flashing. „The ancient legends tell of something hidden deep within the maw of the beast's cave. An item, precious to it beyound words, an item, that it keeps and never forgets. The ancient legends tell, that this is what it sprang from, that this is the core and key to ist substance. It would be valuable beyound words, were it to fall into our hands…" She dropped her voice to a mere whisper. „The first triangulum."

James Norrington frowned.

„And how would it be so utterly stupid to leave it in that cave once it is gone?"

Tia Dalma smiled.

„If it is among a resourceful lady such as Leonora, it might. For the cave is guarded by the most faithful servant it has ever had. Gone may be she, but the Grey Storm lingers."

Pieces started falling into place.

„And the Grey Storm has been wounded"; James concluded. „But would this not… drive it back home to its lair?"

„Maybe", Tia Dalma mused. „Maybe not. I am not sure. That is to find out."

„We can make it." There was a peculiar tone to Susannah's voice, a rough quality, nervousness and determination fighting a war. He turned to watch her – something he had made a point in avoiding, since this interview had begun – and found her pale, but her gaze firm, lips pressed together as to keep inside any words of retreat she might have wanted to utter. „I think we can."

Tia Dalma squinted her eyes, and he was not sure, whether he liked the apprehension that was lying in her gaze, but Susannah, face set, held her ground. It seemed one of those moments, where the seamstress found a strength within herself he sometimes doubted she possessed, and at other times admired.

„I will find a way", she reassured, and James looked to and fro between the witch and her apprentice. Maybe, the older woman had not even known how right she was in what she had said. It all came down to how much he trusted Susannah.

And in that moment, he found the answer, clear as crystal, in her defiant pose, even before a creature, that was infintely more powerful and dangerous, yet not quite as much her ally as she had maybe hoped.

To the ends of the earth...

„Very well", Tia Dalma said, finally, nodding to herself. „The tribe living on the coast, that undoubtedly you know", she nodded to James Norrington, „they have acquired a boat, not a grad one, but large enough to make the journey, small enough not to attract attention. I take it, you feel proficient enough to sail it?"

James let a lot of disdain slip into an answering look at this near-insult, whether it had been intended or not.

„Provide me with directions, as concrete as Sparrow can give them. We will set out, as soon as everything is ready."

The witch nodded, and Susannah, feeling the dismissal, got up, followed by the former Commodore, but he never got as far as the door, feeling the iron grip of Tia Dalma's surprisingly strong fingers around his arm.

„Bring her back, will you?" She sounded aimable, but her gaze wasn't. It was an outright threat, and he was not fool enough not to see it. „It would be very bad for all of us, were she to die on that island."

James straightened with all the dignity he could muster.

„If it sets your mind at ease, my lady, I will do everything I can to ensure this request of yours, not only because of your wish, but also because of my own volition. The only reason for her not to return is for this quest to have failed entirely. And then, the flaw in the chain would not exactly ly with me, if you forbid me for saying so."

He bowed, shortly, and then turned on his heel to follow Susannah out of the house. Tia Dalma watched them, smiling broadly.

„Finding their edge, both of them. How precious."

* * *

The procession was a totally silent one, only the rustle of leaves and the soft sounds of the river accompagnying their steps. A casual observer would have probably been confused at the composition of the party, a woman her demeanor queenly in every possible manner, striding at the front, was leading them, followed by a procession of battered-looking men, carrying a small boat between them bearing gruesome freight.

Three people, set apart from the others especially in the way they held themselves, two women with raven black hair and a man, his movements graceful like those of a cat, schooled and measured.

Anamaria's funeral march was a strange one indeed.

Susannah stumbled through the jungle blindly, staring only at the moving schemes before her, lost in her own musings. She felt the guilt lying heavily on her shoulders, even though a rational part of her mind supplied, that the outcomes of this story were not of her making alone. Responsibility brought a feeling of duty, and this was, what was tearign at her at the moment.

Aside from that, she had liked the pirate woman, who had shown her a lot of kindness at a time, where she had sorely needed it.

She took a look around at the somber faces. Even Jack Sparrow had fallen silent, and the lord alone would know, what he was thinking.

Susannah had no power for such musings.

They arrived at the pond, a lake, surprisingly clear, a waterfall tumbling down from a cliff, creatign a small stream through the pond into the murky lake, that was passing it some meters away.

The pirates set down her freight.

Tia Dalma stood in the water and beckoned Susannah to come with her. She hesitated a moment, before entering the water. She knew well, what would come.

Almost immediately, she felt the whispers. The way the elements greeted Tia Dalma as one of their own, while she was still regarded as an intruder, barely tolerated, nowhere near loved. Yet, the witch never spared her this experience, maybe, because she hoped, that one day, Susannah would learn to love the elements, too.

She placed her hands on the small boat bearing Anamaria's body, looking down at her face, biting back tears.

Take her...

The voice was as clear as if Tia Dalma had indeed spoken, but the words only ghosted through the waters like the memory of a dream, not even reaching the air.

Take her... take her safely. A creature of the sea, a creature of you. We return her home, for you to welcome.

The witch gave the boat a small shove, adn the current picked it up, slowly at first, then faster.

Susannah, weaker, and more human, sent with her a prayer to god.

* * *

The sea was calmer than it had been in days, and it was a grace that it was so, because James Norrington, for all his discipline, was more tired than he cared to admit. The boat was small but – at least in this, Tia Dalma had proven to be a good planner – of solid fabrication, promising a safe passage over the ocean. Two natives, one of them speaking a few words of english, the other only understanding his own tongue, were serving as deckhands, and sails set, they were making good speed. The two natives were at the rear now, sleeping, so that they could take the night shift again.

James had been surprised to learn, that Susannah knew at least some of the fundamentals of sailing, but then, as he had to remind himself, she was a navyman's daughter. She had assisted to the best of her abilities, but now, there was not much to do, and with the helm fixed, he stepped up to Susannah, wondering,whether he would, for once, be able to get some answers.

She greeted him with a cautious smile, that was nervous around the edges, and there was a small comfort in the fact, that apparently he was not the only one, who did not quite know how to handle the tension, that was luring between them, not quite nameable, but very tangible.

„Sit with me...", she asked, giving an inviting wave towards one of the barrels they had brought with them for fresh water. She was sitting on another, feet dangling in the air, hands propped up behind her.

Silence stretched, as he groped for a beginning.

„I would have preferred not to bring you there"; he finally said, honestly. „And I am still unsure as to whether this is a mistake."

„Neither am I", Susannah replied. „But maybe Tia Dalma is right. Maybe I... need to see the prison. To..." She gestured helplessly. „to feel it. There is no better word for it. To understand. Proximity brings knowledge... at times."

He shook his head.

„I am not sure I will ever understand this", he said, and she bowed her head, saddened.

„I fear I do not have the words to tell you." She sounded demure, unhappy even. „Although I definitely wish I had. For what it's worth... I am sorry dragging you into this so deeply."

He closed his eyes. Another of the situations he did not know how to cope with. He had never experienced the strange situation that somebody tried to stand before him, to protect, instead of the other way round. He was not sure, whether he liked it, but in a way, it was very Susannah, although he could not have explained, why.

„You need not be. If any of what you told me is true, then... I did not really have a choice."

She sighed.

„Neither of us had", she replied. „And neither of us wanted it. My mother told me once, that it was not worth the tears crying for something that God never planned. She told me...", she smiled, a little sadly, „that it is never useful to try and change the past. Only the future... is in our hands."

Her words were so true that they stung, deep in his core, bringing up images of Elizabeth, of the Dauntless, the Interceptor.

„I thought we would never escape, when the Grey Storm finally had caught up with us", Susannah said, suddenly changing the topic, and tearing him away from his train of thought. He raised his head, wondering.

„It was indeed... a trial", he replied, choosing his words carefully, but she shook her head.

„I do not mean this. I felt its power. I would have never been strong enough to distract it. Not like this."

He frowned.

„I am not sure what you mean. And, S..."; he caught himself just in time, „Miss Delanney... one request. Just for once. An answer. I fairly think that I earned one by now. And I think what you figured as the reason is also the reason why you think us relatively safe on these islands, is it not? Don't you think I should know?"

She hesitated, then stood up, taking two steps to the rail, pushing both hands through her entangled black hair, gazing towards the horizon.

„I am sorry"; she said, almost inaudibly, and he was not sure, whether this signified regret for her earlier actions of inability to fulfill his wish. „I... don't know... how to tell you. How to..." She shook her head, hands placed on the rail in a vice grip, knuckles protruding. He turned around to watch her, still sitting on the barrel in a posture, that was almost incredibly casual for him.

„Try me"; he said, doing his best to sound soft, and she hung her head, her whole body telltale signs of her tension. A wave of protectiveness surged through him, and he felt fear at the power that she was wielding over him.

„Did you...", she began, very softly, her voice halting, „see the name of the ship in the heart of the Storm?"

„No", he replied, and when he saw her turning around to him, her peculiar eyes were swimming with tears. Her lips were trembling, her whole face on the point of being distorted, just barely holding it together. „I was never...", he begun what he had planned to say, but her gaze wiped away any continuation he might have thought of for this sentence, chased away by the look of utter misery on her face. He got up, before he had the time to think better of it, placing very careful hands onto her shoulders.

„Susannah", he whispered, for once his voice betraying all the worry and anxiousness that he felt.

„It was the 'Prince of Wales', James", she whispered, through her tears, and suddenly he understood, all of it, and felt the same abyss opening before his feet.

He had seen that ship, conciously, only once, just before his father had left for his final voyage, giving his son a tour of his new ship while everything was made ready for the departure.

„No"; he whispered, as the impication of it sank in, then, softer, as denial was replaced by shock, „god help us", then, thinking better of it, „help him..."

And then, with a flash, he realized, that her sorrow was mirroring his own, his thoughts tumbling, with nothing clear left behind. Helplessly, he groped for words.

„I am... am..."

Her fingers on his lips, cool, soft, soothing, and she shook her head, tears running out of her own eyes, only barely keeping from sobbing openly.

„Don't", she whispered. „Don't." And then, with a security of which he could not fanthom where she would find it, he felt her arms around his waist, steadying him when he could hardly stand. He closed his eyes, helplessly, and there was her whisper, beseeching. „Let it go, James. Just let it go..."

There were no tears. He had forgotten how to shed them long ago, but he was trembling miserably, overwhelmed by loss, regret and pain, groping for something within him to stop the shaking, but there was nothing, and the abyss closed in around him.

Afterwards, Susannah thought, that it maybe did take much less time than she had thought. It was hard to tell, but it was her, who came to her senses first, emerging out of an endless pit of fear and pain to a surface, where nothing had changed and everything was different.

Randomly, she remembered her mother, who had shown no mercy on seven year old Susannah, who had acquired a deep slash on her leg playing, which had been festering for quite some time. Finally, Maria Delanney had taken a hot knife, cuttign the illness out. To the little girl, who had been screaming and crying for all the pain that her mother inflicted in her, she had explained, that sometimes, a wound needed to bleed, needed to hurt, so that it would stop festering and start to heal.

She hoped, with all her heart, that this was what was happening to the Commodore right now. For if it wasn't then, one way or the other, she had done her best to loose what was probably her only true ally.

He was trembling and she could feel it, holding him as she did, his head buried in her hair, resting on her shoulder, his breathing ragged, as if fighting for each gulp of air. His hands were fisted in the fabric covering her back and trembling as well, from the sheer force applied, as if something within him was fighting a war, and his body were reacting by the only manner he knew, by mounting of tension, of inward turmoil, while the surface remained calm.

Seeing him in this state tore her very heart apart.

* * *

It took a long time for him to calm down. And when it happened, it happened only gradually, his breathing calming, his hands relaxing, but when he realized the situation he was in, he did so with a start.

He pushed her back, so suddenly, that she stumbled against the barrel, staring at her with wide eyes, panic, distress, shock, pain and embarrassment fighting a war in his eyes.

„I... no..." He shook his head, desperately groping for words, while Susannah herself did not know what to say, in his or her defense.

„I am sorry... I did not..." He swallowed hard, his eyes darting over her figure. She raised a calming hand.

„James, don't...", but whatever it was, that she had been planning to say, he cut it off with a wave of his hand.

„I apologize... I..." He took a step backwards, then another, his hand groping for the false safety of the rail when his legs were so openly failing him, but then he turned around, and fled, with big strides, towards the tiny cabin of the ship.

Susannah stared after him, tears in her eyes.

Still, for the life of her, not knowing what to say.

* * *

His fingers were trembling violetly as he searched through the luggage.

Somewhere... somewhere here... this was a pirate vessel...

Tia Dalma had told them, that this small boat had been used by whoever had need for it, and it was just unbelievable, that among the hundreds of things, that various owners had left in the small cabin, so that now, it was literally impossible to live there, there should not be one of them.

Franticly he tore open another bag, on the brim of madness. He would take anything now, anything to dull the pain and shock and turmoil, that he did not know how to cope with.

When retreat, self constraint, strength had been teh only refuge from turmoil, what did one do, when there was no strength in him to keep him upright? His loss of control had made things worse in more ways that he even dared to name and...

His fingers hit glass.

He tore the object out of the bag. It was, what he had been looking for.

The rum ran down his throat, promising sweet numbness, as if it were the only salvation for a lost soul.

It was not enough.

A vague part of his mind, that was still something resembling sane had probably planned to just drink himself into oblivion, to pass out, but of course, there had not been enough rum left for this.

The dulling effect was settling in, smoothing over the roughest edges of pain and leaving him in a precarious state somewhere half way between what had been and what he had sought to archieve. The last hours and minutes still burned brightly in his mind, but the pain was dulled enough for him to allow thoughts without feeling that he was torn apart between them.

He had no idea, how much of all of this Susannah Delanney had seen. The way his luck was running lately, probably most of it, and if her face was anything to go by, that was a likely option.

She shook her head.

„Why are you doing this?"

She took a cautious step towards him, brow creased in concern, stepping into the relative darkness, leaving sunlight behind.

„Leave", he said, roughly, frightened at the way his own voice sounded, and part of him screaming for her to stay.

She did not comply, but took another step, lowering herself to the floor just out of arm's reach of him.

„Why are you doing this?" He could hear her tears in her voice more easily than he could see with the light behind her, but the rum numbed it and it hurt less.

He laughed, bitterly.

„Does it matter?"

She fell silent for a moment. Then: „To me, it does."

„Yes. I know. The third part of the charm, right?" He snorted. „You all must be having a laugh." She was to close. He had to drive her away, and if it was by mere cruelty, lashing out at her, because he had not done so, earlier. „Norrington at your service. The irony of it..."

„I am not her, James", she reminded, softly, apparently with no mind of leaving. „I thought you knew that."

„The list of what I thought I knew is long, Miss Delanney. It includes...", he broke off, turning away from her. „Go."

„Why?" Matching his curtness, in saddened tone.

„Because I don't know what to make of you", he replied, suddenly softer. It was the alcohol talking, enough of it for honesty to break through, but not enough for him to be beyound caring for anything. A dangerous combination, in her proximity.

„And yet you know so much of me."

He shook his head.

„I know nothing any more."

There was a long silence, and then the rustling of skirts. He was praying, that she would be leaving now, finally driven away, to leave him to his rest, but he felt her coming closer, and he tensed, until his back was bathed in pain from pure strain.

A feather touch to his temples, and he flinched, violently, but the touch did not yield, growing stronger, yet remaining tender. He wanted to tear himself away, but found his head rolling back slightly into the vague comfort of the gesture, her fingers stroking, from his temples back into his hair. He trembled slightly.

„You should sleep", she said, her voice vibrating, with tears, but not only with them. There was a touch of eternity in it, and he felt the pull, but was unable to resist. „Sleep", she whispered once more, and he felt his eyes closing, into the momentary bliss of her gesture, the trembling subsiding, leaving room only for an inexplicable warmth. There was a vague notion of sadness, or maybe something that ran deeper, something, that he dared not quite name, and that did not come out of his own thoughts, but the sentiment wrapped itself around him, like a cloak, to give him warmth.

Softly, very softly, he began to relax. On the edges of his awareness, he felt, that there was something strange about her gesture, fingers travelling over his temples into his hair, but he could not grasp it, and leaned back into the pile of luggage, the little scream of resistance telling him to stay awake dying and dying.

Just as he slipped over into dreams, he realized what he had been unable to grasp.

He felt skin, her skin on his, warmth spreading.

No gloves, this time.


	60. A conversation among scoundrels

A/N: I am tempted to say: May I introduce Leonora Halvery?

**Chapter 59:**

**A conversation among scoundrels**

„This is disgusting."

Leonora looked around, taking in her first glance of what Jack Sparrow had just called the 'sparkling painting of life itself that is Tortuga' and was less than impressed. The town was, in plain words, a mess.

Leonora, even though growing up in a manner befitting for a young lady, had had her share of rough places in her life. London had had its share of dangerous quarters as well, and she had visited them, not frequently, but on a regular basis, in pursuit of her various, more sinister dealings.

A town like this, dedicated only to a certain group of scoundrels, to their whims and pleasures, however, was beyound anything she had ever seen.

Leonora would never have deluded herself so far as to claim to be respectable. In fact, she was quite content with being dubious, a scoundrel of sorts, but unlike those, who had chosen the life bereft of any boundaries in this port lacked the one thing that divided her from the average criminal. She had style. They very obviously didn't.

She sidestepped a splash of water, as somebody emptied a bucked from the upper story of a windswept house and looked in disgust at the mess the dirty water had made on her shoes. She was in disguise, so to speak, wearing trousers – the atrocity of it! - yet, she had not gotten used to adapting a sloppy appearance.

„Ah yes", Jack Sparrow replied, full of obvious glee. „"Isn't this just marvellous?"

He spread an arm, as if embracing the whole place, the other hand placing itself on Leonora's shoulder. She resorted to glaring at it with an icy gaze, but he seemed immune to it.

„No", she replied, because she did not feel like lying. There was no reason, why she would have wanted to impress – or even appease – Captain Jack Sparrow. She was reasonably sure, that the current situation found her in the comfortable position that she was too valuable for him to really get rid of her, and she still felt too unsettled by her past ordeal to bother and spread her charm on him. Alas, he did not seem to mind very much.

During the time since she had left Tia Dalma she had learned, that the pirate seemed to live in his own, very special world. It was, and this, she hd learned the hard way, a tricky thing penetrating into his perception, and once one was successful, it was at least a two-sided blade.

Idly, she had wondered whether he did it on purpose.

He was looking at her, eyes widened in mock shock.

„Why not", he asked, in an almost plaintive tone. „This is, where life is, sweet. Apart from your salons and soirees", the overly nasal pronounciation of the word would have made another Leonora grin in amusement, but she was in a foul mood and not feeling playful.

„We are not here for enjoyment"; she reminded him sternly, trying to bring him back into focus. „We are here, because you said it would be the logical place to start searching."

Jack hesitated for a moment, before continuing, his hands accompanying his every word.

„Ah, no, you misunderstood, sweet. I said, it would be the best place to start looking. And this is, because Tortuga is always the best place. To search, to forget, to find a crew, to get laid. Whatever it is you want, you name it, and this baby has it for you."

„A clean bed", Leonora tried, sharply, and Jack made a face. „Ah, maybe not that", he admitted, before continuing, ignoring her attempt at bickering thoroughly. „Anyhow, come to think of it, this is one of the few places, that she can wander around without being recognized. There's not really many toffs around here, you see? Anyhow, this would probably a good place for her if she wanted to go anywhere – not that I know where, mind you – so maybe, we were both right, and this is not only the best, but also the logical place to look. Isn't that splendid?"

„Marvellous"; Leonora replied, drily, making a big step over a small pond of water that had collected in the street – at least she hoped, that it was water. Jack sighed.

„One might think, that you hold something against me, the way you are talking." He made a very convincing show of being hurt. Leonora raised an eyebrow.

„Indeed?"

Jack flashed her the most charming smile and placed an arm around her shoulder.

„I must be mistaken then", he concluded. „But now come. Let's go and I will show you the wonders of Tortuga..."

Hours later, in a dirty room above a noisy tavern, the door closed behind her, Leonora finally allowed her anger to fully break way, and a pillow, lying on a dirty bed, suffered instead of the head of insufferable Jack Sparrow, who had dragged her through more places than she had cared to pay attention to, without gaining so much as an inkling of information for his trouble. He was – one could think – the worst pirate that she had ever seen, and she was stuck with him, on a mission, that she could not abandon as easily.

British or not, whatever was happening in Port Royal was dangerous, and there was no telling, that it would be confined to the english realms, so, she reasoned, it was better to stop it while she could. On top of this, she felt a slight obligation, if not to Jack Sparrow, then to Tia Dalma, who had been adamant about what had to be done next – and about who was supposed to do it.

Her task had been clear enough.

Find Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner.

Given what had happened in Port Royal, and given the resourcefulness of the governor's daughter, this was bound to take a while.

Jack Sparrow had tumbled through the hustle, posing the occasional question here or there, but to no avail. The day had dragged on without a trace of Elizabeth Swann, and finally, fed up with the scenario, she had bought her way into one of the rooms in this place, while Jack Sparrow – grinning broadly – claimed to have 'something to do'.

She could well imagine what that was, and was quite offended at his nonchalance towards their misfortune. It seemed, as if he did not take the whole affair seriously.

Or as if he had an ace in the hand that she did not know of.

The thought came suddenly, like a shock, and she hesitated, the pillow falling down to the floor. All of the day, Jack Sparrow had seemed adrift of sorts, indecisive as to where to turn. Considering the way he was treated – with all the caution and respect that could be expected towards a competent scoundrel – this was quite surprising.

Yet Leonora Halvery liked to keep things up her sleeve as well. She smiled grimly. Another of the lessons of her mother.

Never let them see everything in your hand.

Now, that she had thought of it, it was quite probable that Jack Sparrow was holding something back. Leonora, smiling to herself, took her jacket to leave the room once more. This was, indeed, a game that could be played by two.

„A lady." The old man, whose face was partially hidden from her view by a curtain of grey, greasy hair, topped by a brown hat, sounded something between disgusted and intrigued. „You sure you're searching in the right places?"

„Ah, a rare gem can be found in every stone, can it not? By the way, if I were you, I would be careful in insulting the fabulous female population of this splendid town. You might need them some day, and I know from personal experience", Sparrow winced shortly, „that one would do well not to cross them too much. However, coming back to the actual point, the point of being a lady is quite stretchable, is it not? I mean, if a lady were to... say... show up here in man's clothes, in disguise, with good reason of course, is not a lady any more?"

The older man seemed to take a moment to process the twisted information.

„Well, I'd not recognize her as such."

„Well, then in another way." Sparrow, agile as a rabbit finding a new hole, dived for a different strategy. „Were I to find someone that has.. say.. tried to get back to the british islands, accompagnied by a young eun... I mean, a young man of too respectable nature", he made a face, „would that ring a closer bell?"

„Not that I heard of", Sparrow's contact evaded the direct question, taking a deep sip from his tankard of rum. „However...", he contemplated, then shook his head. „Ah, probably not."

Lenora bit back a smile. From the glitter in his eyes, the situation was quite obvious, and Sparrow was more than capable of reading it, as well.

„You were saying?"

Almost invisibly, a coin changed its owner, but Leonora, even though she craned her head, was unable to see which one it was. It would have been interesting to learn about Sparrows resources in this field, but that apparently had to wait.

„Ah, now I remember..:" Quick as a snake attacking a victim, the man had taken the coin, hiding it somewhere in his sleeves. „I have heard some talk about a young woman that might fit the description. Young Wilbur was bragging about it."

„Wilbur. An interesting name", Jack Sparrow commented. „I might come to like it. Wilbur." He tasted it on his tongue, then made a face. „Tastes dusty", he concluded.

„He's a crewmate of Blackbirds."

Leonora, hidden beneath a large hat and behind a column supporting the flat roof of the tavern, was hard pressed to hide her glee. A contact of the spanish. Linked to Castellano, to whom she had passed information more than once via her mother. Things could not have been much better.

She missed the next words in the conversation between Sparrow and his guest, when she, all of a sudden, recalled the words Tia Dalma had said to them.

„You will make a splendid team on this journey."

It was not altogether impossible, that she had known.

„People get hurt doing, what you just did, ya know?"

Jack Sparrow did not even offer her the courtesy of turning around to her, and she wondered, how she had been revealed. Yet, this was his domain, and Leonora was not naive enough to underestimate this.

„People do", she replied, therefore, stepping up to him. „But I am still here."

„Granted", Sparrow acknowledged. „Saves me the trouble of explaining."

Leonora snorted.

„Next thing you'll tell me is, that you hoped for me to follow you and eavesdrop, so that you might be rid of the duty of explaining to me why exactly we are going to Blackbird."

Jack considered this for a moment.

„No", he admitted then, almost with regret. „But it would have been a splendid idea. And I like the way you are thinking."

She rewarded his words with a glare, taking place on the chair opposite to him, that had, until recently, been occupied by Sparrows guest, not without checking whether he had left any dirt around. „And while we are talking about it", Jack continued, bowing over towards her confidentially. „Considering, that this Blackbird person has a reputation of serving not the loyality of blinking gold but of... ah... say... more indistinctive values, such as an indirect payment, or whatever it is, that drove him to do what he does, would it not be a great idea to make use of it?"

Leonora frowned.

„You are saying...?" Jack Sparrow's thoughts were difficult to follow at the best of times.

He rolled his eyes, as if dealing with an especially tiresome pupil.

„Let us state the obvious. Blackbird is dealing with the spanish. Which brings me to you. You are spanish as well, are you not? One might come to a conclusion or two. So, if you were to say, where that Captain is hanging around – his whereabouts are difficult to place sometimes, you know? - where would that be?"

Leonora took her time to place a strategy. She did not feel inclined to opening up to Sparrow with all that she knew. He was the kind of person, that would take a whole hand when given a finger, and Leonora had had her share of that kind of people in her life.

„It's not Blackbird you want", she replied casually. „He's a small fish. A british governor's daughter is too big a catch for him. He'll have handed her over."

„If he recognized her", Jack intercepted, but Leonora did not dignify that comment with an answer. To her, it was just another step in the careful dance they were dancing, for now not knowing what to make of the other. A glare between disappointment and boredom was just the right reply to this.

„So who then?"

She shrugged in a carefully measured gesture.

„Castellano, maybe. Or the Spiranoza, whoever is captaining her now, after Haverito had his run-in with Norrington last year. Whoever was around."

„Well then", Jack Sparrow said, and got up. Leonora followed suit.

„Well then what?"

Now it was Sparrow, who shot her a look of annoyance.

„Sevilla Nuova, wouldn't you say, sweet?"

Leonora sighed.

„Inevitably."

Three days later, and now it was her, who was moving through the shadows. She was nervous.

Sevilla Nuova was better than Tortuga, a place that suited her better, a place, where laws and manners were followed, at least on the surface, and only the night allowed, what she was about to do. But still, she felt uneasy. Leonora had seldomly participated herself. She had learned the steps of careful fencing on diplomatic parkett – no woman with her heritage would have been able to go without, and a daughter of the grand Crystabella Halvery even less – but in creeping through the shadows, she was an amateur at best. Besides, she knew little about Sevilla Nuova. She had heard a thing or two between the lines, but nothing specific.

And she was a forger. Not a spy. At least, not mainly.

However, there was no way of telling this to Sparrow, and since Leonora had always found playing safe to be a boring strategy, she was following her own tracks. Her hand checked the position of the document against the pocket of her vest, and she hoped, that he hair bound into a ponytail at her neck and the fast bondings around her breast would make the disguise of a boy more believable than she felt it would be. Yet, it was her best shot. She had had to improvise, of course, without her collection of seals and scripts, but her memory was good, and so was her skill. It would not pass a thorough inspection, but it should be well enough for whom she was meeting now.

They had followed Castellano's traces, learning that he had been here, some weeks ago, the 'Rosa' taking residence in the port. He had spent a few days ashore, while his crew spent time in the brothels and other vague places around, before they set sail again, eastbound, for as far as the harbour master could tell.

Sparrow and her had divided, searching the places that the crew had visited, in search and hope for news. Now, come to think of it, she was not sure, why they had even gone seperate ways, but probably they had both been playing at their own games.

Leonora had not seen any reason to tell Sparrow, that she had found out, what was the place that Castellano was visiting when he was in town. She doubted, that the pirate shared all information with her – and this was a lead she could follow on her own. She planned to find out as much as she could on her own – and then to decide which part of it to share with the pirate captain, and at what time.

Granted, with time passing, she began to find a certain pleasure in her hiding games with Jack Sparrow. They had spent their whole voyage in a careful game of verbal hide and seek, each trying to lure out information out of the other, and each one guarding his, or her, secrets well.

He knew to play his hand, and she had never backed off of a worthy opponent.

She paused at the entrance of the tavern, where the crude drawing of a bird hinted towards the name of the place.

The red seagull.

Leonora took a deep breath and stepped inside.

On first look, the tavern was a sleepy place, people sitting together in groups of two or three, spread apart far from each other, lost intheir own conversations. Yet, she had yet to make her first step into the warm light, when she felt the gazes upon her, hidden beneath hats or in casual gestures. But she was sure, that only moments later, she had been weighed, measured, estimated.

She could only hope, that she would manage to be a surprise.

The man standing at the bar was elderly, yet lean, the only signs of his age showing in his face and greying hair, a man, whom age suited well, as it did to many spanish, which he, undoubtedly, was. She stepped up to him, passing all the gazes and whispers, casual, her step belying confidence.

She had always been a good actress, of sorts.

The landlord greeted her friendly, looking up from the glass he was calmly polishing, and she found herself under a wake, but kind scrutiny.

„Aren't you a bit young to be up this late?" he asked, his english heavily accented

„Didn't see an age restriction sign on the door", she replied in her mother tongue, the familiar vowels and consonants rolling smoothly down her tongue. The man raised his eyebrows. Her dark, rich voice went well with the impersonification of a boy on the brink of manhood, but she was not sure he would buy it, whatever she did.

„A traditionalist", the man referred to the fact, that she was obviously using a language, that was not openly welcome in this town, since it had moved from Sevilla Nuova to Spanish Town, leaving open, whether he appreciated this fact or not. Leonora shrugged.

„Just an honest person."

„Can I get you something?" The barman switched to day-to-day business effortlessly, and Leonora nodded, asking for a beer, that came promptly, a dark, smooth brew, that was better than she would have expected.

„Quiet night", she commented the crowd around her, and the barman nodded.

„Traffic's not, what it used to be", he said, with just the right amount of regret to make it believable. „Especially since this tavern is... nostalgic in some ways."

„I can see that, yes", Leonora replied with a smile. Apparently the barmaid didn't believe her to be a stray visitor. Just as well. This might simplify things. „A glimpse of home among strangers."

„Might be." The barman smiled friendly. „It is always good to see a friendly face is it not? This is why I remained, to be honest. After... things changed." He shrugged, turning back to his glasses. „For better or worse."

„For better, I am sure", Leonora replied, shying to step over the bridge he was offering, sensing the long fall beneath it. He was giving a charming spectacle of a nice elderly man, but she was not sure, whether this was to be believed. „This is a haven for the spanish in this area, I heard."

He shot her a quick glance.

„You did? The waggling tongues have always done me too much credit."

„Yet, I was told", Leonora turned towards the heart of the matter, „that many spanish that step by here, appreciate this place."

The barman raised his brows.

„I see. Listen... lad. Why don't you get to the heart of the matter?"

„If I were to deliver a letter to Fernando Castellano", she began, openly, „where were I to look?"

„Castellano...?" The barman smiled. „The 'Rosa' you mean." He shrugged, turning back to polishing his glasses. „He steps by, from time to time, true. But I never know why."

Leonora smiled.

„Of course. But you know where he's going."

The barman shrugged.

„At times", he admitted. „And at times I don't. That would depend on the urgency of the letter."

Leonora reached into the pocket hidden well within her vest, producing the paper she had slaved over for quite some time before. Hit was closed by a seal, printed in red wax, and the barman raised his brows, betraying that the seal was not completely alien to him.

Which probably meant that he was buying her story. It was not the first time, that she had forged the seal of the Count of Floridablanca, advisor and favourite minister to the king, but it was the first time that she had done so with improvised equipment, carefully carving the seal from a piece of wood with tiny knifes that she had brought from Tortuga.

„You are a very strange messenger", the barman said, and she could virtually see, how his thoughts were racing, one after the other, to be able to place her and her errand. She smiled.

„I would prefer the term 'extraordinary'."

Carefully, she placed her hand upon the bar, hiding a few coins, onto which she, for the moment, allowed him only a short glance

„Where is he?"

„It is hard to tell", the barman replied, placing his hand close to hers in a strange sort of admittance. „I know, that he went to chase a certain lady going by the name of Elizabeth Swann."

„The governor's daughter", Leonora mused. „I was under the impression that she was with him anyway."

Now, the barman seemed to be genuinely surprised.

„She was?"

Treasuring the fact, that she had a piece of information to bargain with, Leonora shrugged. „I may be mistaken", she took a step backwards. „Maybe the gossip... confused things. So...", she shoved the coins from her hand into his. „... where was he following her to?"

„England, as far as I know."

For a silent, joyful moment, Leonora cheered the wit of Elizabeth Swann. There were few things, that could have driven her back to the motherland, and it was most probable, that she was there following the clues, that she so desperately had tried to send to her. It was a calming thought.

„I see. So I were to search her on the passage?"

To find a ship on the wide atlantic was impossible, even she knew that much. The barman shrugged.

„Well... I may have another idea... while I would be very interested in knowing about that... false gossip you were informed with."

Leonora struck the bargain. And only minutes later, she knew, that Blackbird, welsh captain in the service of the spanish crown, was anxiously awaiting one of his crewmates, that had departed with Castellano – and that should be back in Spanish town any time soon.

Leonora was thinking about making an exit once more, when the door to the tavern opened once more. One quick glance over her shoulder sent a shock to her guts and made her smile directly afterwards.

Whether by his own tracks or by just following hers – Jack Sparrow had made an entrance.

Nodding wordlessly to the barman, she took her drink and retreated to a corner.

It would be quite a spectacle to see how he would be fishing for information.

It was impossible to understand, what the two men sitting at one of the tables were saying. But Leonora knew about movements and their meanings. There was, she had to admit, a certain wild grace about Jack Sparrow. Watching him negotiate was an extraordinary experience.

A small smile touched the lips of the not quite so respectable Miss Halvery.

Wondering, what it would take to put a very sublte leech on this particular, free spirit.


	61. And never turn to run

**Chapter 59: And never turn to run**

It was, on the whole, not the typical morning after a storm.

From all that she knew, normally it showed a clearer sky, brilliantly blue, the air clean and fresh, as if the tempest before had rinsed it of all impurities, of all tension.

Yet, what she had would have to do.

When James Norrington appeared, after many hours of dreamless sleep, his facade was in place, stern, neutral, serious, cold, but she could see, that it was the only refuge he had for the moment. His formality was the backbone, that kept him upright, and he was a soldier, a military man, who knew enough about battles to know, that in times of panic, everything, everything had to stand back behind the necessity of what he had to do.

The open behavior, that he had shown towards her recently, the sometimes even remotely playful, friendly, at times trusting manner was buried down deep, but Susannah knew well enough, that it was there still, dormant, because, for the moment, he did not find the strength to face it.

He stepped out into the sun, and took a look around, until he found her standing at the helm. The wind was kind – not unsurprising, considering they were following Tia Dalma's bidding – and she had had no trouble navigating the ship over the open sea, gazing at the compass before her just as she had learned to, a lifetime ago, on the ‚Mary of the seas'. The two natives were sitting at the bow, lost in their own conversation that she was unable to follow.

Norrigton stepped up to her, after a short, expert gaze towards the sun, then, on the compass.

„We have been holding that course?" he asked, matter of factly, and Susannah nodded. „I have, since sunrise, and Payu claims to have done so while I slept."

He nodded.

„Very well."

Hands clasped behind his back, he stepped up to the rail, from where he could spy past the sails towards where they were going. Silent, lost in his own thoughts, the slightest of frowns on his forehead.

„How long will it take?" she asked, after a moment of looking for the courage to breach the silence between them.

„That depends." For a moment, something flickered in his eyes, that reminded her, that beneath the facade, there was a man, a companion, someone, who might one day be a friend, but it was gone quickly. „Will the wind prevail?"

„That depends, as well. It might become less favourable the closer we get. But I cannot be sure. There is too much that I do not know."

„In the best of cases, we should reach it by tomorrow evening."

A shiver ran down Susannah's spine.

„Then we should not make haste", she commented. „I do not think it wise to arrive there in the night. The Grey Storm walks in shadows, as if it were its friend."

„Are you ever going to give me a straight answer to anything?" James asked, almost softly, almost sadly, a world hidden beneath a posture of control.

„Maybe one day", she replied, almost inaudibly over the wind. „Maybe then I can."

Two days into their voyage, they finally reached their destination. Sparrows directions had been inaccurate, of course, but he had been able to correct these mistakes, even though for the last portion of their voyage, he would not have even needed directions from a chart. The words from the woman next to him had been more than enough to give directions.

It seemed, as if she could feel the islands, across miles and miles of space, and even though she tried to hide it, the terror in her eyes was plain.

As they came closer, he thought, he could sense what she meant, indistinctive and – in plain words – disquieting, like a quickening of his heartbeat, for seemingly no reason.

He had tried to ignore it at first, explaining it with a reaction of his overly stretched nerves, the strain of the last weeks finally catching up with him, but now, the unease was crawling under his skin like a predator, and there was no use denying, that there was more to it than mere imagination.

He accepted the thought for what it was, a mere observation, without looking for an explanation, that he was unable to give for the moment.

For now, he was just a sailor following another order. He did not find the strenght within himself to see it differently.

„We should try the western shore", Susannah spoke, all of a sudden, her gaze fixed onto the twin islands, that were slowly emerging from the mist, like threatening towers beneath a sun that suddenly seemed colder. „She said, that the Gaiatu live close to the shore there. Maybe they can tell us what happened."

He wondered, when the seeress had gotten that specific piece of information, but for the moment, he resorted to just following them. But when they finally, stepping out of the small boat, set foot on the white sands, that surrounded the western shore of the western island, the air around them surprisingly cool, the view hidden with streaks of mist, he was, for an instant, grateful for Susannah's cautious hand, being placed on his shoulder in a fleeting gesture. The time for denial was long gone. Something on this land spoke to him.

And he did not like its song.

The islands were covered in green jungle, the rich, aromatic smell of the plants filling the air with the false promise of an idyll, the cries of animals sounding from afar. The western shore of the island ended it narrow beaches, three broad neighboring bays broke the cliffs that surrounded the rest of the land. The island seemed untouched and forgotten.

Yet, the whole scenery was filled with an unseen, unspoken tension, like a veil, drawn over an ugly sight, and while James only felt a slight notion of unease, it was clear from Susannah's expression, that she was much more affected.

„There should be a path…", she said, peeking around into the jungle. James followed her gaze, and indeed, saw a small gap in the endless green before them, half hidden by the leaves of a low hanging tree, leading up the overgrown rocks deeper into the island. It was not a path as such, more a winding line of a jungle less dense and impenetrable, and they set out to follow it to where, according to Tia Dalma, the Gaiatu had their place of settlement.

The walk throught the jungle was tiring, even though the mist, which kept the islands in tight reign, did not allow fort he temperature to mount too high. The moisture was just as bad though, and light as her dress was, Susannah Delanney was bathed in sweat already after walking the first steps into the green twilight.

James Norrington did not seem to be bothered by the circumstances just as hard as her, even though he walked in front, shoving his way through the leaves and bushes that had, despite the fact, that this was obviously a path, done their best to reclaim at least part of the way. There were a few droplets of sweat on his brow, but he was still breathing evenly, unlike Susannah, who gasped for air, as she tried to follow his quick stride.

He soon became aware of her difficulties, shooting her a questioning glance and slowing his pace, but while part of her was glad for the rest she was granted by this, it did nothing to quench her unease. Time dissolved into nothingness as Susannah fell into a trot, her thoughts dulled by the heat and the pressure, that fell onto her strange senses.

It was too bright, she would have said, had her eyes been the sense that was tortured so.

In mid-stride, James Norrington froze, and Susannah, not quite herself, would have almost walked into him, stopping only at the last moment.

The Commodore stood, motionlessly, looking around, his eyes narrowed, a hand raised towards Susannah as if to stop her.

„What…?" she asked softly, her heart hammering wildly. The sudden change of mood had shaken her, torn her out of a reverie. She felt like a sleepwalker being reawakened.

There was not enough training in her to remember, that it was probably not very wise to talk when he had silence her thus, but Norrington, after another moment of tension, turned around to her.

„That smell…", he said, as if that would explain everything. Susannah inhaled deeply the spicy aromes of the jungle, but it was too foreign, to alien to her, and she shrugged softly.

„What do you mean?"

„I am not sure." He pressed his lips together, worrying. „I may have been mistaken." He was not convinced, though, every tensed muscle of his body told her that. But as long as he offered nothing, there was no way to help.

„Let us proceed with caution", he said, finally, and led the way once more, Susannah following him warily. Walking much more slowly than before, he made sure that he would stand between her and any threat that might present itself on their path. She swallowed, hard. It did not come as an actual surprise to her. But it scared her none the less.

As they proceeded, she finally picked up the scent that had gotten his attention, sweet, hidden beneath the aromatic perfume of the jungle, unfamiliar, yet alien to this surrounding. He slowed his steps once more, turning around to her.

„Perhaps you should stay back, while I check the surroundings to see whether it is safe to proceed."

„What is it?" she asked, once more, but he only shook his head, lowering worried eyes to the ground.

„I don't know."

He was not a very good liar.

Yet, she let him step forward, watching his form vanish in the whispers of the surrounding jungle.

And then, she was alone. Alone with the ghosts of this place, alone with the whispers, surrounding her like the endless Green, alone with the knowledge, that, what was hidden here was an evil, that she only dimly hoped to one day conquer.

The whispers drew closer, now, that she was alone. Fear was rising inside her, like a bubble, coming from the depth of the waters, slowly rising to the surface, where it would burst, showering her in everything it had brought with her.

Her heartbeat quickened.

For a moment, she considered calling out to James, but she was not as scared as that – he had made it clear that there was a potential threat around, that was worrying him – and finally decided for a different strategy.

Step for silent step she followed into the direction that he had gone, further along the path, doing her best not to attract any attention, and even though she was no master at stealth, it came to her more naturally than she would have thought. These were trees, a forest of sorts, and more a home to her than the sea would ever be.

He was too far away to be reached in a few steps, but Susannah doubted, that he had left the path – she would have heard him crashing through the thicket - and so she ventured on, in silence, until the trees and bushes receded, giving way to a slightly overgrown clearing, where she saw Norrington walking around some meters away. He was tense, she could see this from afar even, his whole posture speaking of alertness, and he looked around taking in his surroundings.

The smell was stronger here, sweet and strange, reminding her of something she could not quite grasp, and she took a look around.

Small huts, consisting of branches and leaves, placed in a cone around a tree, littered the clearing in a loose pattern, broken by cold fireplaces and heaps of supplies, wood and hide.

Hide…

She froze. Something about those heaps was odd, stroke a wrong cord, and she stepped closer, slowly, carefully, to get a closer look.

Then, all of a sudden, the images gained form, and she understood, what it was, that she was seeing. She froze in shock, as she connected the smell, James Norrington's worry and the sight before her, and bitter bile rose to her mouth. She took a deep breath, then another one, the stench invading her nostrils.

Dead. Dead. All of them dead.

She felt dizzy, pained, her stomach revolting as the images, now clear in their meaning, crashed upon her, and she understood, that there was not a soul living here, but that all of them lay dead and rotting, killed by her wrath and left as a feast for crows.

Bile rose to her throat, inevitably, and she sank to her knees, emptying her stomach into the grass, trembling, in fear and disgust and shock, barely conscious in the grip of what she had seen.

One strong hand supporting her brow, another around her waist, as the cramps diminished, staved off by the strong, careful grip. A voice, low, but soothing, the epitome of calm, slowly finding its way to her.

„Breathe", he said, softly, close to her ear. „Breathe deeply." She followed, and indeed, the sweet, sickeining scent had receded a bit in his proximity, the sharp smell of a plant, grinded between his fingers, overlapping the sickening odor, and her awareness slowly returned. A bottle was brought to her lips – „Drink this", he recommended, still in that soft, careful tone, as if speaking to a child – and she followed his command, taking a deep gulp of water, then another one, the drink slowly banishing the bitter taste from her mouth.

She blinked, then opened her eyes, looking into the frowning face of James Norrington.

„Can you stand…?" She nodded, even though she was by no means sure, but as she tried to put weight on her legs, she found that they had enough strength in them to support her, and she allowed herself being led away from the scene by him, with a brittle care, as if he feared she were made of glass and should shatter at his slightest mistake.

„Why did you follow?"

He was not angry, but annoyed at the least, a deep frown plastered on his features. He had placed her on a stone, upwind from the scavaged village, out of sight and smell of the devastations and was standing now, a few meters away, staring into the jungle. Susannah, in that very moment would have loved to have an explanation to give him. Yet, there was none.

„I was…", she groped for words, then settled for the truth. „… scared."

He turned around to watch her questioningly, yet he said nothing, and Susannah shrugged, a little helpless. „I'm sorry."

He took a deep breath, then nodded, more to himself.

„Well", he concluded. „You have seen for yourself. There is not much help to be gained from the tribe Tia Dalma spoke of."

Susannah nodded, numbly. She probably should not have been surprised at this turn of events, a voice supplied, deep down, but she was not as habituated to warfare as she probably should have been. The death of many lay heavily on her shoulders, even though it was not her fault.

„I presume", Norrington continued, as she remained silent, „that we may thank the… ghost for this."

Susannah forced herself to think. To shove thoughts through the syrupy thicket of sadness and regret, if not for her sake, then for his.

„How did they die?" she asked, and Norrington turned away, unable to meet her gaze. He seemed to struggle with himself, for a moment, before he replied, softly, as if hoping, that she would not hear him.

„I am not sure. It seems to me that some of them.. went at each other's throat, like beasts of the wild. They did not all die at the same time, either. Some of the dead were presented, like trophies, and some were already long gone, and no one seems to have bothered burying them. So, tell me, seeress, how did they die?" There was bitterness in his words, a hard tone, but it was rage, not directed at her, only being showered over her because she was the only one present. In a way, it was a calming thought, that he, too, was not left untouched by the horror in the natives' village.

„The ghost escaped", Susannah concluded, his observations forming themselves to a story, almost without her doing, and she felt, as if the leaves of the trees were supplying the missing pieces of information, unintrusive, soft, almost imperceptively. „It must have been the shaman, that fell first, for it must have been him, who first realized, that the seal had been broken. He must have thought that it was only a small breach, that he could fill himself, but he was mistaken, so sadly mistaken." She closed her eyes. „The shaman had a pupil, strong of heart, but weak of spirit, and unlike the old, who resisted, the young obliged to the whispers, that filled the trees, falling deeper than his teacher could ever have by confronting her. And thus, distrust came between them. Then anger. Fear. Death finally."

She closed her eyes, against the images, that came, more as a feeling than truly in a picture, yet, it did not help, and the feeling of uneasy foreboding did not go away.

„Are you well?"

She opened her eyes to see the former Commodore standing, watching her wearing a frown on his face. Yet, his hands clasped behind his back, standing as upright as he ever could, he seemed distant, inacessible, even though his tone did tell of a different demeanor.

„The trees remember their cries", she said, sadly, in an attempt to make him understand how she came by the information she shared with him. „There is… a stain left. In the air."

His lips tightened, and he looked away, probably embarassed, probably just at loss at what to say to this statement.

„Since searching their help is not an option", he changed the subject abruptly, his voice once again matter-of-factly, „what is the next step in your… plan?"

Susannah looked around thoughtfully. She feared, what she had to do, but there was no option, no way of escaping. There was just the truth before her – and the question, whether she would have the courage to go it.

„We will go into its lair."

Of course he knew. By his grim nod, she realized, that he had not expected anything else. Green eyes turned to steel in a matter of seconds. A warrior preparing himself for battle. Even for death, possibly. Or for any other of the horrors that lay ahead for both of them.

The mound of the beast.

Melodramatic as it may sound – and James Norrington had never been one to give in to melodrama – he never had found a sight and feeling expressing more closely, what was raging inside him, as they, finally, stood in front of the entrance cave into the labyrinth of the ghost. The jungle had claimed much of what there was to be seen. Pieces of walls and colums, stones and statues, were scattered about, overgrown by the wilderness, almost hidden by the forest, as if vegetation had done its best at hiding the scars of the past – or as i fit had done ist best at concealing,that this was no ordinary cave.

He walked around between the half-forgotten remnants of the prison, his hand gracing over weathered stone and fading pictures, something familiar lingering about these cold, unfeeling stones.

„I have seen such before", he murmured, thoughtfully, despite himself, not thinking clearly, just responding from an urge coming from somewhere deep in his mind. It was not like him to be influenced so easily, but the unease he had felt since coming here was multiplied now that he was standing at the entrance to the cave.

„Where?"

She had not been standing very close, but apparently her ears were keen. She was tense as a tightly strung rope, and he could not begrudge her for it. He frowned, trying to remember.

„It was… on one of my earliest voyages… we got caught in a storm in the mediterranean. We seeked refuge in a small natural port on one of the islands in the Aegaeis."

He remembered, a bare, unfriendly, dry island, soaking in the rare rain greedily.

„We were sent out to find water… and at a pool there were colums like these. I remember the tops."

Gingerly, he fingered the stone he had been looking at, the stone turned into a decoration reminding him of a spiral, on both sides of the broken column.

„But… greek?" He shook his head. „I must be quite mistaken. That is impossible."

Uncertainty was alight in Susannah's eyes.

„Maybe", she said, softly. Her gaze strayed to the entrance, looking into the darkness. „But I think we should not delay. There is nothing gained from it."

Norrington nodded, swallowing down any unease he was feeling.

„I know. I am ready, if you are."

The air was damp and cool, the darkness lurking like a beast in the corners, where their lamp would not reach. They were following a winding corridor, part formed natural through the flow of water, part showing the fading signs of old tools being applied to the cold rock.

The light of the torch was flickering, the shadows cast around them unsteady, as if something was lurking, following them, as they entered unbidden, into the kingdom of another.

The first cave that they had stepped into still bore the marks of having been used lately. The decorations on the wall had been crude, unskilled, mere paintings, in part, or desperate attemps to carve patterns from stone. It had seemed unfitting compared to the exquisite work of the decaying columns outside.

Items were scattered about, some broken, of little value, some hidden gems between them, the chaos recent, dust only beginning to resettle.

She had told him, that this cave had been the hall of the Gaiatu, where they sacrificed things to the beast under their soil, a haven, where the ghost could tread, but not exercise its power, a .

„Tia Dalma always thought this ludicrous", Susannah had explained, „though in silence. „The Gaiatu would not have understood. They had… their own way of seeing things."

They had left behind the haven, walking deeper into the stone. The path was winding, but mostly staying on the same height, and even though it was difficult to estimate directions, he would have thought that they went towards the place where the two islands were joined. As he related this to Susannah, the young woman nodded.

„That may be true. Tia Dalma told me, that the twin islands were chosen specificly, to create two different barriers, one of the sea, one of the land. If I were to guess, I would say, that there is another exit – but below sea level – at the other island."

„Why would one do this?" James intercepted, frowning. He stopped in his stride and turned to look at Susannah, who was frowning in thought.

„I do not know. Just that… Tia Dalma said, that there was an exit, from which the grey storm would emerge from the cave. That must be on the waterline, must it not?"

„Flawless deduction, true enough." There was no humor in his voice, but no annoyance either. „Yet, still I am wondering at the wisdom of placing this… prison."

„Perhaps, we will learn", Susannah said, softly. „We are here not without reason."

He pressed his lips together, but nodded, reluctantly accepting.

Without a word, he turned around again, leading her through the darkness, sure footfalls being joined by her almost inaudible ones.

But when, finally, the corridor broadened, opening the view to what exactly the islands were hiding, his eyes widened, and feigning indifference, as he had done the hours before, was no longer an option.


	62. Twilight

A/N: Yes, I know. I don't even know how to begin to explain. But Here I am again, picking up long-lost threads. Taking on a long-forgotten challenge. Returning... to the Caribbean

**Twilight**

The days passed by in a lazy, terrible row, some cloudy, some sunny, and every morning started early, with the changing of the watch in the first daylight, and dragged on in endless hours, while the ship sailed west.

The voyage was, on the whole, quiet, no storms crossed their path, and the wind was a surprisingly steady breeze, that promised good progress, but that was not the only way, in which their trip could be described as 'quiet'.

Elizabeth, standing in the bow, threw a glance at the main mast, where, between ropes and hawsers, sat Will Turner. She caught him moving and wondered, if he had looked at her while she had been standing turned away from him.

It was not the first time that something like this had occurred.

He avoided her, since the discussion they had had shortly after meeting up with captain Castellano, and Elizabeth since then had had a lot of time to think about what she had done.

This had provoked a thought, that she had previously shoved aside with vehemence, because that, which came of it, was depressing, but she could not escape its power.

After the Black Pearl incident, before her engagement to the blacksmith had become official, her father had undertaken several attempts at pointing out to her, how unfortunate her choice had been. Not, that he did not like young Turner, or that his regard for James Norrington would have clouded his view.

Weatherby Swann had had only the best of intentions. She and Will had grown up very differently. And they lived in different worlds. Then, she had dismissed his worry and angrily accused him of being envious for her happiness with Will, but now she understood, what he might have meant, and she regretted her outbursts.

She regretted many things. Including the momentary state of her relationship. But even now, when she thought about it, she could not bring herself to regret her actions. She had used Leonora Halvery's life in a trade, this much was correct, but she had not been in a good position, and at the end of the day, her father was closer to her than a strange Spanish lady with doubtful reputation. And, in addition to that, she was not as dogmatic as Will about her promises, if necessity dictated otherwise.

That was another thing he would never understand.

He had busied himself with naval things, helped the crew, discussed course, wind and the overall circumstances with the first mate, but he had avoided Castellano.

He treated Elizabeth decently, courteously, but none of them ever mentioned the quarrel, as if both feared, where it might lead them.

Castellano, on the other hand, had been courtesy itself. Now, that she travelled under his command for a second time, Elizabeth learned to appreciate the quiet, confident way he led his ship, as well as his exquisite manners. Despite his occasional inclination to quarrels, he was the spitting image of a man, who harboured only the best of intentions for their quest. She was not fooled, of course.

And she could not help asking herself, what kinds of secrets Leonora Halvery was carrying around.

Time dragged on, as she gazed into the water and asked herself, if this wild life, that she had led recently, really was what she had wanted.

Life had become more exciting, and she appreciated her new freedom, but all these things had a price, which she had never before thought about.

It was – in simple words – reality. In reality, mistakes were expensive. Mistakes had consequences.

During her life in the Port Royal residence, she had been shielded, protected by her father's influence. Every one of her extravagances had been excused by his reputation, and she had played, silly, tried to spread her wings, but the stakes had never been high.

This had changed, dramatically. She enjoyed freedom, but her quarrel with Will had shown her, that the protecting bubble she had lived under, was gone.

No Royal Navy to come to her rescue.

No father, trying to excuse her thoughtlessness.

No safe cushion of social standing, imprisoning as it may be, that softly caught each fall.

Elizabeth Swann, even though she had no words for it, understood, that it was time to grow up.

"Two days, if the wind holds."

She flinched and turned. Fernando Castellano stood at a few paces away. He was, like always, immaculately dressed, the captain's jacket pristine. He did not wear a hat, the short, black hair was toy to the wind.

A slight smile played around the corners of his mouth, maybe taunting, maybe only curious.

"Where shall we land?"

He stepped closer to her and turned his gaze west.

"I would propose San Juan." He placed his arms on the rail and mirrored her own pose effortlessly.

"Spanish Territory", she remarked, and Castellano nodded.

"I thought", he said, not excusing, but explaining, "that spanish territory is safer ground right now, in the Caribbean."

„For you", she remarked and he smiled.

"I would say for both of us, Miss Swann. Maybe it would be wise, to first find out what has happened, while we were in Europe, would it not?"

She pressed her lips together. He was right.

"That is right", she admitted. "But how reliable will that information be?"

He smiled and looked down on his hands.

"You would be surprised", he said.

Elizabeth gave the matter some thought. She had never really dealt with the subtle art of diplomacy and espionage, but she knew that her father had, not due to inclination, but due to duty. It was highly probable, that the Spanish had their spies in Port Royal, just like the English had their information from various Spanish cities.

Maybe this information would even be more accurate than if they would talk to an English officer. Most of them had the tendency to smooth over the rougher parts – especially when talking to a lady – and maybe, the sharp tongue of a Spanish patriot would be closer to the truth.

"This may be none of my business", Fernando Castellano interrupted her musings. His voice was soft and tender, careful, with the slight Spanish accent of which she suspected, that he employed it more for the impression it made than for actual incapacity of speaking without it. "But since this whole story is based on trust, maybe it is, after all."

He turned to the mast, where Will sat, lost in his thoughts, and looked back to Elizabeth, the good-looking face slightly frowned.

"Are you two on the same side?"

Elizabeth bit her lip to hold back the sharp reproach, which had demanded attention immediately. After all, he had a right to as this question. He smiled, even while she was thinking about an answer. Her reaction had told him enough.

"A word of advice, if I may", he continued, and his tone clearly indicated, that this was no question of permission. "You should clarify your – and his – position, before we set foot on San Juan."

She pursed her lips.

"Is that so?"

"Miss Swann", Castellano continued, with just a hint of anger in his voice. "I do not like to tell you this, but what you and I are planning to do is no trifle. It may be dangerous for all of us, including my ship, my crew and me personally. From my experience, such undertakings are better done when everyone follows the same goal."

Elizabeth snorted.

„You cannot seriously mean, that you and I are following the same goal."

„We are, when we are talking about chasing away a lady, who controls your father", he contradicted. "I stand by my word. We may be enemies at other times, but I hold by my promises. What about you?"

"Of course", she retorted, offended.

„You have also promised him things."

Castellano smiled and gazed back to Will.

„I want this resolved, Miss Swann. Before we get to San Juan. This is my ship. You have to work together. Otherwise, I will not take the risk that you ask of me."

He turned on his heal and left her standing at the rail, furious, but right now, utterly powerless.

How to find an accord, if the positions are as different as that?

* * *

Two hours later found Elizabeth still standing in the bow, staring into the water. Her mood had switched from fury to anger and discontent to helplessness, and shaking her head, she wondered, why she even listened to the spanish man.

But she had to admit that he had been right in what he had said.

At this moment, Will and herself traded separate paths. The young smith had only little reason to follow their travels – unless he followed her, because it was Elizabeth's dealing.

It would, of course, be possible to go to him and apologize, but she did not feel like it, because in the same situation, she would certainly not act differently. And Elizabeth did not want to lie to Will. She would not sink as low as that.

Which left her with precious few possibilities to clear up the mess, if considered, that Will, as friendly and cautious as he was, had his own ideas and values, which he had no intention of compromising. Not even for her.

But Elizabeth Swann was known for her courage. Not necessarily for her capability of thinking things through, but for her courage of facing her fears and all obstacles openly.

And thus, she turned and went to Will.

He climbed down from between the sails, when he saw her approaching, insecure as to how to react to this.

Her harsh words were neither forgotten nor forgiven, but their quarrel and separation had pained Will during the days past, and so at least a part of him was glad, that she now again moved towards him.

Her expression was determined, as if walking into battle, and he felt a wave of affection at the sight of this step, which probably had cost her dearly.

But affection, so much was sure, had never been their problem.

"Will, I think we have to talk", she said soberly, and he missed the levity, that they had always felt around one another. Maybe there was more of the arrogant noble in her than he had ever wanted to believe. He was, of course, conscious of their difference in social status, but her behaviour during the Black Pearl situation – and afterwards – had kindled the hope, that it was possible to break this barrier, at least for them.

Now, he was not so sure of this any more. The thought was infinitely painful. He had spent so much time wishing, she should see him, so much time longing for her, even though he knew it was in vain. Then the first weeks of their engagement had been a miracle, a time, as if forged in another world.

Now, reality was back again.

He nodded numbly.

"So do I."

"I am sorry that I offended you", Elizabeth started, haltingly, and stared out to the sea. He pressed his lips together, hearing what she said – and what she didn't.

"But not about what you have done."

She closed her eyes, pained. Will wondered, how both of them could feel the pain of the moment so acutely without finding a path leading over the canyon, that separated them.

Elizabeth shook her head.

"No", she said softly. „But I had no choice."

"And what kind of choice is that?" Will asked, now softer than during their first quarrel. She looked so depressed, despite her words, that he felt, how his insides clenched painfully. He had always been responsive for moods. "You hand her over to a man, whose intentions are, in the very least, dubious."

"What can he want from her, Will?", she asked. "Information of course. Maybe her capabilities. She has worked for Spain before. Do you really think she would mind?"

„Mind being used again? Mind just being handed over? Elizabeth!" He shook his head, on the brink of losing control, when he saw the tears in her eyes. She bit her lips and pressed her hands together.

"It is my father, Will. By God, it is my father that Crystabella has! I…." She threw her hands in the air and made an angry sound. There was nothing she could have said, when he could not read her body language.

Will was torn between the tides and looked at her. How he would have loved to step up to her to comfort her, but that, at the moment, was impossible. It was painful, that she did not understand, not even now, when she had had ample time to think about it.

"But that is not the point, Elizabeth", he said softly.

Confused, she whirled around and snapped "What?"

"I do not agree with you. I am against handing Leonora over. But that is not the point, Elizabeth."

She frowned

"What do you mean?"

He closed his eyes. Still, she did not understand. He felt the rift between them acutely

"Elizabeth", he said softly and tried to ban tenderness from his voice, when he spoke the name that he so often had confided to darkness, at times hopeful, at times despairing. "Elizabeth, either we are engaged. Then we are partners in every possible sense of the word, and I would even be your partner in a trade as this one, if it cannot be helped. Or you are the governor's daughter, and I am the blacksmith. We cannot be both."

For a moment, she looked at him in exasperation, as she understood, what she had done to hurt him.

"You questioned me", she said, but with less fury and only the shreds of earlier determination.

"You forgot", he retorted softly, "that I do have an opinion"

„We cannot start to discuss in such a situation in front of a man like Castellano!" she answered crossly.

"Why then are we doing automatically what you deem right?"

"Because it is my father, Will."

He closed his eyes and leaned on the rail, taking a deep breath. He loved her determination, but at the moment he felt as closed from her world as possible.

"And I thought I was your betrothed."

Silence echoed between them. Then she looked at him with barely veiled pain in her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

He asked himself, if he knew. Or how it should continue. But as far as one thing was concerned, Elizabeth was right.

"This is not the time for such discussions, Elizabeth, I agree." He took a deep breath. "Let us finish this here, fight the ghost, whatever it may be."

"And then?" she sounded almost scared.

"Then we live in a different world", he answered. "And then we will see which rules apply."

She hid her face in her hands and tried to collect herself. But when she raised her head again, her eyes were dry.

"All right", she said and did not mean it.

But it was the only thing to be said at the moment.

* * *

It worked astonishingly well. Castellano had to admire the composure of both, because even though it was clear that their differences had not been resolved, they at least seemed to reach some sort of accord.

News from the English part of the Caribbean were of course less than encouraging. From what he could read between the lines, the Royal Navy had started to behave unforeseeably, to follow a course that was difficult to understand, and Castellano attributed this mainly to the indirect change in command. Crystabella Halvery however seemed competent enough to tread lightly. There were no hints towards a riot, or mutiny, he had to admit.

The Spanish held back and watched without interfering, as far as Castellano could tell. A clever move for two reasons, as far as he was concerned. First, he already had understood that it was difficult – and risky – to stand up against the ghost, that had Port Royal in a tight grasp and second – and even more important – he did not want to have a compatriot seeing the Rosa in a fight at the side of any british army, as improvised as it may bee.

But beyond all these information it seemed that the day was more than worth the effort, and when, late in the evening, he met up again with Elizabeth and Will to exchange news and to consider how to continue from here, he had news for them, that surprised them both.

"Tell me, Miss Swann", he began and watched closely, how her expression changed to watchfulness. She had learned to expect everything of him, and rightfully so. He took his time.

„I have had strange news about an incident in Sevilla Nuova. Maybe you can enlighten me as to what I am supposed to think of this?"

Elizabeth frowned.

"That is not easy", she replied, with slight anger, "if one considers that I have no idea what you are talking about."

"There is a pirate", Castellano began, and it would have been a lie to say, that he did not enjoy the conversation. "A pirate who goes by the name of Jack Sparrow, and who seems to be looking for you."

William and Elizabeth exchanged a glance that was difficult to read. There was curiosity and surprise, but that was not the only thing. Especially in young William's eyes was a touch of anger, and acceptance of a fact that he was unable to change.

He had heard rumors on an incident, that connected Sparrow to the governor's daughter, and now he began to wonder what really had happened.

"Sparrow?" William repeated. „Are you sure?"

Castellano smiled.

„I am. And it gets stranger still. There are people who say, that he is accompanied by a young woman, whose description is remarkably close of that of a certain Leonora Halvery."

"Leonora Halvery is influenced by her mother", Elizabeth retorted. William nodded.

"Maybe she is trying to get to us in that manner."

Castellano frowned.

"Why should she?"

"Because I knew, that Crystabella was not what she claimed to be. Even before I went to London. Leonora told me."

"But hen Crystabella should know that the damage is done, shouldn't she? You were in England. You already learned the truth."

"But we did not act upon it", William replied. "But that may well change."

"Or Leonora has escaped her mother", Elizabeth mused. "Following what I can say – she resisted, at least. She tried to warn me, three times, and maybe there were other things that I did not notice. I presume, that even the written warning, which led me to England, was of her making."

"So you are saying she might act on her own accord?"

"Possible", Elizabeth replied with a shrug.

Thoughtfully, William traced the lines on the table before him.

"Sevilla Nuova, you say…", he mused. Castellano smiled.

"Worth a visit, wouldn't you say?"

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**X**


	63. Eyes wide open

A/N: Another one. Now that I backtranslated the chapter that got lost somewhere along the way, I can just give you everything I have up to here. It's gonna be a bit, so enjoy. I think there will finally be some answers in this chapter...

Spirit, reborn

**Eyes wide open**

„Good god in heaven…"

The whisper carried awe and fear in equal measures, and in a gesture, as familiar and intrinsic to him as the lines on the back of his hand, he stepped in front of Susannah, as if he were able to protect her.

The size of the cave before them was unfanthomable, as they were standing at the entrance, their light not reaching very far into the room, yet revealing already an inkling of its glory.

A forest of dripstones was covering floors and ceilings of the cave, stalagmites, stalagtites, curtains, ivory glistening in the unsteady light of their torches.

Like waterfalls from the ceiling some formations came, while others seemed to form silent watchers, casting shadows around that might hide other, different demons. It was a spectacular sight, a moment of rare beauty, yet, whether it was for the shadows and the darkness or for other, different reasons, he felt fear, a sense of foreboding that quickened his heartbeat.

And amidst all of this, as if grown from the very earth, stood a pavillion of pure white, half hidden beneath the dripstones but larger than it seemed at first gaze. Colums reached up to the ceiling, their tops elaborate and beautifully crafted, supporting a stone roof carefully ciselled.

The style of the building was clearly to be placed. James Norrington shook his head in disbelief.

„It is, indeed, greek."

He felt Susannah's hand slipping into his own, and the gesture was so calming, that he allowed, it, cool fingers circling his, and slowly, taking care that she was always standing behind him, he took the first steps into the sanctuary.

He would not have expected to fear a transition, but there was, like passing from rain into dry, an acute absense of something that he could neither name nor explain. He felt alien, bereft, misplaced, as if he were standing aside his own body, controlling it like a puppet on strings, but with a delay that was at once disquieting and disconnecting. He heard a sharp gasp behind him, and guessed, that Susannah felt the same he did, but maybe even more acutely. He turned around to check on her and found her staring at the entrance they had just passed, back turned to him, her posture rigid.

In the unsteady light of his lamp, he saw a sculpture placed on a rim above the entrance, a marble shape coming to life in the flickering torch. A man, dressed only in a waistcloth, standing there, his gaze turned downward, but not towards the two onlookers, but into the void, an expression of soft sadness on his features. His right was holding an simple cube, and while his whole posture was relaxed, powerless, the fingers that were grabbing the object seemed to have a firm hold. He was standing on a pedestral, into which letters were engraved. Slowly, James Norrington stepped closer, curiosity peaked, raising his lamp to decipher what was written there.

It was, unsurprisingly at this point, written in old greek, the letters still new as if they had been crafted only yesterday.

„Can you read this?" he heard her whisper beside him, and he nodded slowly, uncertain, whether he would understand any of it. His parents of course, had seen to it, that he gained a thorough education, including lessons in latin and greek, and while he had never resisted any of this, he had not followed it with enthusiasm either, and after his recruiting into the royal navy he had never put up with it again.

Yet, seeing it brought back knowledge he had thought lost.

„The path of the earth", he translated slowly, frowning. „That is, what is written there."

Susannah stepped up to him. In the chilly cave he could feel her radiating warmth as her concentration was fixed upon the sculpture.

„This is the path that was opened when my triangulum broke", she explained and turned back, after a last gaze towards the silent watcher. „Let us go on, James. I do not know how much time we have."

He nodded and turned around, stepping towards the pavillon cautiously. Susannah followed, her footfalls inaudible on the stone floor.

Water was dripping around them, together with the still-invisible stream the only sound on the cavern. His breathing echoed loudly in his ears.

When they came closer, stepping between the stalagmites, the building gained shape, showing, that it was not a pavillon that was standing there, but a building of higher complexity. Two rows of colums stood like soldiers, topped by a delicately ornamented roof, forming a rectangle around an open space in the middle. Norrington felt reminded vaguely of decaying ruins on small islands in the aegais, places of fading holyness, where birds now only sang the song of devotions long ago.

But this place was real, alive, if deserted, and it was, to some extent, clear, that neither of them were welcome here.

In the middle of the building, the source of the water sound was to be seen, a small fountain, which spilled water into a basin, then toppling down a few steps to vanish in a hole in the floor of the structure. On top of the fountain, two sculptires were standing, one, significantly smaller, was dressed in an ancient armor, wearing a helmet. The clothes did not conceal the fact, that he had the built of a warrior, lean, strong, yet his posture spoke of weariness, as he handed over a goblet to a statue of larger built, who, an axe in his hand, glared down on him angrily. There was a strange familiarity in the scene, but he could not grasp it.

Susannah, however, familiar with myths and legend, did.

„That's Odysseus and the cyclops", she whispered, and he had to admit, that she was right. He felt her stepping up to him, then past him, and even before he could utter a call for caution, she had placed a delicate hand on the pedestral that the two sculptures were standing on, the water running over her fingers. „My mother has told me of the Odyssee", she continued, softly. „But why is it here?"

It was a strange thing, he thought, to end up in the Carribbean, so far away from home, in a world that seemed so completely different, only to be caught up in something, that seemed to have a very mediterranean source.

„Not quite my level of expertise", he replied to her soft question. „Yet, I confess that I would like to know."

Carefully, Susannah brushed her fingers over the cold marble. Her eyes were narrowed, the lips pursed. Once more, she seemed to see more than met the eye, and he felt a sudden, irrational surge of fear.

Again, she was going to a place where he could not follow her to protect her from harm.

The fact, that this affected him so, was scaring.

„There is love in this", she whispered. „And wrath... so much wrath..."

She shuddered. „The statue is showered in it. For such a long time..."

He felt a shiver creeping up his spine, but there was nothing to be done at the moment. He raised the lamp and peeked into the darkness. Somewhere behind stalagmites and stalactites, amidst the black, there was a paler shade of grey, and he could not shake the thought, that this was not the end to the wonders of the sanctuary.

He pushed away the thought of the most trusted companion of the ghost, of the ship, that he had seen, and that Susannah had identified. He was not sure at all, what he would do, once he found himself in front of it and was unwilling to face the thought right now.

„Susannah." He forced her name past his lips, all thoughts of 'Miss Delanney' gone, and, wonder of wonders, she did not seem to mind but only stepped up to him quietly, eyes serious.

„Yes?" A whisper, like his call had been. He motioned towards the back of the cave.

„There is light."

She squinted, apparently unable to see what he did, but then closed her eyes and relaxed her features, taking a deep breath as she tried to rely on senses, which were closed to him.

„There is something, yes", she confirmed, „although I do not know where or what..."

He nodded, once more stepping before her. He had no intention of putting her into any more danger than necessary, and not only because of the promise Tia Dalma had forced out of him.

„I will see what it..."

„No..."

Her hand on his shoulder held him back and he turned around, annoyance warring with worry.

„It might be dangerous", he reminded her.

„All of this is dangerous", she replied, her arm showing the scenery around her. „This is her sanctuary. Every step here is foreign land. But we are two of the triangulum. What power we have here, it lies in us being together."

He considered this for a moment. The logic of this story was strange, difficult to follow, yet it was consistent, at least, and in the matters of magic, he had to trust her for lack of his own expertise, praying, that she indeed knew, what she did.

„Then come", he said, reluctantly, and she offered a small smile, all the more precious as dark surrounded them almost completely.

He felt himself answering it and looked away. The rush in his chest was still to unfamiliar, and he had to find his battle calm again to be able to survive this voyage.

They followed the weak light he could see in the back of the cave and found indeed another path carved into the rock, and the light was stronger here, a warm glow that was difficult to place.

„I do not think that this is daylight", he mused, and Susannah agreed from behind him. The path wound through rock and stone again, following several small windings, before it opened into another cave. It was much smaller, and very dimly lit by a diffuse red glow, that seemed to be coming from the middle of the room. There, a small pavillon was standing, a round dome supported by four colums of odd shape, a lofty structure, once more painted in marble. Only as they came closer, it became clear, that two of the colums themselves were statues, a man and a woman, face contorted in such an anger – no, rage – that when he first made out the shapes he took a step back, shoving Susannah behind him before he realized, that, once more, it was only stone and marble.

The air was considerably drier here and a trifle warmer than the other cave had been. In the shadows of the room, he could make out shapes that suspiciously looked like furniture, a divan, a small table, a bed.

Yet he was drawn towards the source of light and warmth, and so was Susannah, and soon, they found themselves standing in front of the pavillon.

Three steps were leading up to a pedestral, in the middle of which a large hole could be seen, the insides glowing red.

He was on the brink of looking into it, when Susannah hissed behind him, and he turned around, hastily, hand on his weapon.

Yet while she had taken a step back, she was only looking at him in the quizzical way of hers, a hand placed in front of her mouth.

„I think I understand now...", she whispered, and then, relief seeping into her voice so strongly, that it even conjured a small smile onto her face, „finally... finally I understand."

He frowned.

„Understand what?"

„The triangulum. The four... it goes all back to Greece."

She sounded a bit erratic, and he stepped towards her, frowning. There was no telling what would happen when her strange gift seized her. Yet her eyes were clear as she looked at him, placing a hand on his arm.

„Come."

On the bottom of the hole, source of light and warmth, was fire. He had never beheld anything like it, but remembered descriptions from sailors, who had witnessed an eruption from the Aetna volcano in Sicilia, and this matched it step for step.

A viscous mass of fire, glowing red and yellow, flowing like a river deep, deep down, gnawing at the marble but not hurting it. Even here, well above the fire, the heat ws so intense, that it was difficult to bow over the hole to take a look.

„The path of fire", Susannah whispered, and suddenly, it indeed made sense.

„So there have been four seals, not two", he concluded, instantly, and she nodded. „I am quite sure of that. And each of us guards a path... or guarded."

He frowned.

„I understand"; he murmured. „There is symmetry in it, at least. Even though I am at loss to tell why this should work, and why a prison with four entrances should be less secure than a prison with only one."

„Maybe it's not about what you and I believe", Susannah mused. „Maybe it is about what the ghost believes. We all make our own restrictions. Beliefs become fundamentals, thoughts become truths. That is what you call sorcery."

It took a moment for him to digest this information. The thought was simple, yet... disturbing.

„Actually", Susannah continued, more softly, „I don't think Tia would have wanted me reveal this."

This sounded so much out of place, like a child fearing the scolding of a parent, that he could not help but laugh softly.

„I will not betray your confidence."

It earned him a small, returning smile.

„Thank you", she replied. „But I am serious. We make our own limitations. We must never forget that, when dealing with this. Things that we are afraid of do have power over us."

He swallowed hard. The life of an officer in the british navy certainly was not all about being afraid, but it was about restraint. About discipline. It was a disquieting thought, that this could add up to a disadvantage.

„Are you afraid of me?"

Her question struck like a hammer. He whirled around to her, his breath quickening only a trifle. He would have loved to say no. But the truth was, he did fear the hold she had over him. She was prominent in his thoughts, and, thruth to be told, had been for quite a while. But his life had been so strange during the last months, that this had only been another oddity among many. Yet, now, when she forced him to face it, he was shocked at how attached he had become to her.

And he could not bring himself to lie to her face.

„I...", he groped for words and avoided his gaze, embarrassed and ashamed. „I don't..."

He had no idea what to say.

He heard her taking a deep breath. Disappointment? Resignation? Both was painful to imagine.

„Please...", her voice was shaking, „look at me."

It was an inhuman effort. And yet, he complied and was surprised to find her dark eyes swimming with tears.

He closed his eyes for a moment to be relieved of her gaze.

„Susannah, I... can't..."

„Why are we afraid of each other?" she whispered, sonding so utterly lost.

And in a world, where none of the old rules applied, he dared a leap he would have never been able to, had this been reality.

He stretched out his hand to brush away an errand strand of black curls that had escaped her bun framing her pale face. The gesture was so improper and unfamiliar, that he drew back at first, before the contact, but finally he managed to hold her gaze, and for a moment, in the reddish fire light, he saw, well hidden behind a veil, painful longing appearing.

He touched her face, fingers tingling from the unfamiliar sensation, and her eyes closed, as she instinctively leaned into the gesture.

His heart was beating rapidly, erratically, and he would never know where he found the courage to take the last step towards her and enfold her in his arms.

And, all of a sudden, he felt calm. Warmth clouded his senses, as Susannah placed her head against his shoulder, returning the embrace almost carefully.

They had reached the heart of the storm, and just for a precious moment, the skies were blue.

He whispered her name, placing a tiny kiss into the mass of black curls and wondered, whether this could be real, for neither did it feel like him, nor like his life to find himself into a situation like this.

„So four elements..."

He was crouched at the side of the fire pit looking down without any real memory of how he had gotten there. The moment was gone, but he felt more calm than he had in weeks, the memory of the scent of her hair still present.

How silly all of this seemed.

Susannah, beside him, nodded. She had, as well as himself, found a way to rationalize what they had to do, finding towards her usual, a little dreamy, but focussed self.

„Fire, water, earth and air, is it not?" She seemed uncertain. „Do you know more... about that part of mythology? Because I do not..."

He scraped together what he remembered from half-forgotten childhood lectures.

„Maybe... like most european philosophers until Robert Doyle the greek divided all matter into fire, water earth and air. Since they were believed to be the fundamental constituents of the world, they were also attributed... different things."

Frowning, Susannah looked back to the sculpture colums.

„Like characters."

He nodded.

„Originating from the hippocrates. "

Susannah supported her forehead with a hand.

„And she tried to match the characters to the seal."

„Each of us represents an element, then..."

„It is only a symbol, James", Susannah explained patiently. „It was not to fool us, but to fool her. It only has to hold for somebody who truly believes in these restrictions. But when we came here... I know already, that my triangulum sealed the path of the earth." She got up stepping to one of the statues. James followed her with wary eyes, tense with worry.

„And fire would be..."

„Tia Dalma", she said thoughtfully.

„How can you know?"

She waved him to step up to her and when he did, he saw a small object in the hand of the angry woman's sculpture.

She was holding a triangulum.

„Tia Dalma is the fundament. So it is her symbol, that became the symbol of us all. She is the constant while all the other keepers changed. I am not sure about it, but I think she is the one part of the spell, that cannot be exchanged easily."

„So then I am...", he half asked, and she smiled softly.

„Water, of course. And Jack Sparrow is air."

„How befitting", he replied drily. The thought of Sparrow had lost a bit of its sting. „So what does this mean?"

„It means, that I understand more about how this magic was weaved."

„Understand more as in ‚be able to reproduce it'?" he inquired, tensely. Susannah pursed her lips and shook her head in regret.

„I'm sorry… no. But maybe to use it…" She got up again, stepping towards one of the angry statues, gazing out into the dark.

„There is a real living room, do you see?" A slender hand pointed towards the outskirts of the room and he stepped to her, lantern in his hand again, shedding light on what was hidden before.

The divan was covered in red and white cushions, a blanket tossed carelessly aside. A shelf was put against the wall, filled with items he could not interpret, yet it was there, that Susannah was drawn, slowly, as if following another calling.

„She surely made herself comfortable", he confirmed, matching her step to stay at her side.

„A prison is never comfortable", Susannah contradicted. „May the bars be golden, it still is a prison." And then, as an afterthought, „it was a punishment, that she was sent here. Tia Dalma revealed as much."

„A punishment for what?"

She shrugged.

„I do not know. Not yet…"

They had reached the shelf and Susannah began inspecting the contents, warily touching this or that. A comb of alien shape, decorated with fading gems. A goblet, which had been copper and now was green, fading, decaying, almost gone. A mighty bow, occupying one part of the shelf on its own.

With careful fingers, the young woman lifted it up and turned towards him.

„Can you draw this?" she asked, holding out the bow to him. He raised a brow. During his childhood, he had learned to handle a bow, but had never done it since and never seen a reason to. Neither did he, now.

„Why?" he asked. „Do you think this is the bow of Odysseus, and you are testing, whether I will be able to draw it?" Soft mockery crept into his voice and met the dead seriousness of her eyes.

„Maybe", she replied.

He shook his head. Affection warred with annoyance and he decided for a middle path.

„You really are mad… part of you at least."

Again, the careful attempt at humor was lost on her. Her sad eyes were scanning the shelf again.

„I know, James", she said softly. She sounded detached, as if she were, indeed, slipping into another world, into another conscience, as if a fine veil was drawn between them. The thought was nauseating.

He turned his eyes to the bow. It was mighty, longer than two meters, of polished, black wood engraved with ornaments. A weapon befitting of a king, so much could be seen.

And, whether it was because of her words, or because there was indeed something special to that bow, it proved to be utterly undrawable.

After the fourth failing, he found Susannah watching him, chewing on her bottom lip.

„It's really not possible?"

„I'm sure it is possible. But a bow is not exactly my weapon of choice."

She nodded and stretched out her hand to take the bow again, placing it back in the shelf. Thoughtfully she ghosted her fingers over the bow.

„It was cared for with love…", she whispered. „I can see that."

„By the ghost?" Her notions were often difficult to guess, and he saw her shoulders shrugging.

„I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. I would not think it were capable of love…"

She remained standing there, lost in her own thoughts. Seconds clicked by, seconds, that they did not have.

„Come, Susannah…" He stepped up to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. „We have to go on…"

She raised her hand, placing her fingers onto his.

„This place is overwhelming", she whispered. „There are memories everywhere." Her grip on his fingers tightened. „I fear that I am losing myself."

He swallowed hard, stepping closer until they were almost touching.

„What can I do?"

She leaned against him, breaching the barrier, chasing the veil away, and for a brief moment he closed his eyes, overwhelmed by closeness, trust and warmth.

„Be real…", she whispered, almost a plea.

He had, never in his life, felt so helpless.


	64. Sweet dreams

A/N: There's more...

**Sweet dreams**

"A wonderful evening to you, splendid lady, light of my day that you are."

Leonora looked up from her parchment and glared thoroughly.

"Hello, Jack."

While they were waiting, she had made it a habit to be curt in her dealings with him. He needed no encouragement whatsoever to talk, and she was unwilling to provoke any more of his famous ramblings than she had to tolerate anyway.

"How is it going, most skilful of the scoundrels in this town?" He stepped behind her and peeked over her shoulder carefully, standing on tiptoes to get a better view. Leonora, with practised movements, shoved what she was working on under a pile of parchment.

"As well as can be expected, I guess", she offered, turning around. "It's not as if I had much to go on."

Jack Sparrow shighed.

"You have all the trust I have to give." And then, like an afterthought, "which of course isn't all that much, considering, that you are first Spanish, then a spy, and finally have only recovered from a serious fit of having an evil entity in your mind, which means…"

"Your point being…?" she cut him off, stressing her annoyance. He was an interesting person to deal with, but there were times, where she would have loved to be able to just chase him away.

"My point…ah…" He grinned cleverly, raised a hand, as if to begin a great speech, then lowering it again. "Nevermind."

"So, if you still want that deed, how about…" She made a suggestive gesture with her right hand, smiling friendly, half hoping that he would leave, half knowing, that she would be disappointed, if things had been this easy.

"Ah yes", Sparrow replied, making his unsteady way to the door. "Yes, of course."

Almost having reached the door, he stopped again, whirling around, and would almost have provoked Leonora into groaning in annoyance. She was already half-bowed over her work again.

"On second thought", Sparrow continued, "there was something I wanted to tell you."

She schooled her face into a mask of polite interest.

" I am all ears."

"No, your not"; Sparrow contradicted and cocked his head, watching her intently. "All eyes, actually. Often, I mean. Of course, there's still a nose and such, but still…" He waved a hand before his face. "Well, whatever. I got a letter today."

Leonora raised her brows.

"Here?"

They had taken up residence in the second floor of a small house in Spanish town, paying the landlady, an elderly woman, a fair amount from Sparrows purse for granting them residence and not asking too many questions. The rooms were tiny and crammed, given the fact, that the roof started at the floor and the house was not very big in the first place, but it had proven to be sufficient, and Leonora appreciated the opening that had been cut into the roof so that a trapdoor could be lifted to let more daylight in. It was, as long as there was no rain, a splendid working place.

"Well", Sparrow just said, "not here… as such. I might have… been talking to that charming tavern owner again?"

Leonora put down her pen, turning around towards him with a resigned smile on her face.

"I dimly remember that I told you it would not be too wise to go to him too often, because we do not know whom he is passing information to."

"Ah… true", Sparrow smiled. "But doing the wise thing is also doing the expected thing, and doing the unexpected would confuse those people who expected the expected of you. And since all of us expect the charming man to pass on information to the sources that we want information passed to, doing the unexpected might just be enough of the unexpected to get through to the sources we expect… ah, want to know what we are up to."

Leonora had, in the recent days, gained the suspicion, that Jack used his entwined sentences mainly to confuse those who had dealings with him, to lure them into believing him or at least letting him his will. Which was why she had made it a habit to pay most attention to Sparrow's longest speeches.

"Unless of course", she therefore replied, "he would expect the unexpected from you. Which, given your reputation, may not even be the silliest thing to do."

Jack made a face. Leonora was not sure yet whether he liked her to match him on even ground or not, but as long as the situation was unclear, she continued for lack of a better idea.

"Hey", he said, making a splendid show of being offended. "Letter...!"

He waved around a dirty piece of paper in front of her eyes to get her off the subject of expectations. "And you don't even know what's in it."

"Who's it from?"

"A man, who, if you want my honest answer, is not quite running for a popularity medal of my personal list of most favourite persons – a list on which you, sweetie, of course are mounting up steadily just because of your charming personage – anyway, that very man proves to be very annoying. He might even be a pirate, had he not been something else, by the way he holds himself…"

He made a face.

Leonora, grinning, stood up and took a few steps towards him, carefully placing each foot.

"Which means, of course", she smiled, "that you know him and he bested you at some point or other."

She watched him, head tilted, a smile on her face. It was working. Sparrow's eyes locked with hers. She had succeeded in doing this more often during the last days, and she liked what she saw.

There was a world lying in black eyes.

Her hand snaked forward and snatched the parchment from his hand. The world continued on spinning and she unfolded the paper graciously, ignoring his protest.

"Fernando Castellano…", she replied, skimming the text. "So the message caught up with him finally?"

"The wonders of the world, dearest." He had stepped up to her, looking over her shoulder to read the text again. "Yet, let me tell you, who is probably a bit unfamiliar with the current surroundings, that in the Carribbean, nothing stays covered for very long."

"I'm not sure whether this is a calming thought."

She moved to the window, skimming the page, the script, the signs of usage. It added up quite well. The parchment was good, but not exquisite, of spanish fabrication and had suffered quite a lot of being in close proximity to salt water. The damage was recent, however, which fitted the image of the Captain, who certainly would not have his parchment falling into ruins if he could help it. The script was fine, graceful and confident – and looked suspiciously like the one she had already forged twice for her mother to convince a suspicious London nobleman, that she was, indeed, capable of intercepting spanish messages.

"Looks accurate", she replied and Sparrow sighed in exasperation. "The world must indeed be grim from your point of view, my gem." He placed an arm around her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. "You stay locked in your room far too often. Somebody should teach you the wonders of the world some day."

She shot him a sideward glance.

"Offering something, Captain?"

He only grinned.

Again, a moment passed, before she continued.

"Finally"

Leonora grinned softly.

"As much as I enjoy this waiting with you, I should be glad for it to end in the two days he promised."

"Don't know about you, Jack", she replied, "but I most certainly am."

* * *

Night had fallen over the city of Port Royal and everything was quiet. The lights of the town had gone out one by one, as on every ordinary day, and even at the governor's residence, only a few candles chased away the deepest darkness. Servants moved silently through the corridors, as if too much noise would waken a demon, that had taken up residence in their house, changing everything for a darker, more gruesome future.

Neither of them could have really said, what had happened, or when, and only the bravest – and most foolish – would correlate it with the woman, who had, starting out as a guest, now taken over more and more of the residence, if not in light, then in shadow.

Crystabella Halvery was everywhere, even if, like now, she was nowhere to be seen.

Gradually, things had changed. No one would have been able to place a point, a day or a certain occurrence when the climate had gone from normal to subdued, as if something was lying over the house like a predator.

A scary thought, on the whole.

Weatherby Swann was standing on the balcony of his room, listening to the silence. It was a strange thing, now that he thought of it, and only rarely achieved. The city was sleeping below him. His city…

And now hers as well. Crystabella was an unexpected miracle, a gift he would have never expected, and yet, at times, he woke in the night, heart racing, and stepped out into the cool night to calm his thoughts. Things were so very, very different now.

At days like this, he was missing his daughter. Crystabella, despite all her efforts, had not succeeded in finding her, and while she was sure, that the governor's daughter was alive and on the move, she could not tell where she was at the moment.

Most of the days, the worry was bearable. But right now, it was not.

A sound from behind him made him turn. She was tossing in her sleep, glorious black curls tangled on the pillow.

Her sleep was restless. Yet again.

* * *

At first, there was a house. A small cabin, at the edge of an unkind sea. The wood was decaying, moisture having reduced it to something, that was not quite, but bordering on black. The door was closed, but the small window next to it had been left open. The only, hollow sound against the crashing of the sea was the clacking of the shutters, as they crashed against the frame again. And again. And again.

There was a flower, beautiful, bright, sitting on the edge of the cliff, surrounded by yellow grass. A moment of rare beauty, an instant of soothing in a sea of unrest. But upon coming closer, the flower grew spikes, and the leaves, glorious from afar, turned out to be rotten. The smell was sordid, decaying.

"Are you sleeping well, sister?"

The voice carried menace throughout the void.

"Sending dreams will not help you, you know?"

Calm. Confidence. Even a detached sort of patronizing friendliness.

"Ah, but there is a lot of truths to dream."

"I had forgotten, how much of a hypocrite you are, sister."

The reply was a soft laugh, amused more than anything.

"Yet there are differences, as you should know."

"What do you want?"

"Let him go."  
A command radiating power, yet the power was lost on its recipient. Too similar they were, sisters of a kind.

"No."

"You are making the same mistake again."

"So are you. I have changed, sister. I will not be subdued this time."

Resignation came with the tide.

"Then be it."

"Yes."

"Sleep well, sister."

A voice almost like a lullaby, had there not been the undertone of thill, a promise of quite another making. "Sleep, and dream."

* * *

She was murmuring, and he was annoyed. She had been tossing for quite some time in her cot, waking him up, and the words that are continuously – and ununderstandably – leaving her mouth were not helping.

Black curls were entangled on the pillow, and even though she was bathed in sweat, and her brow was furrowed, he could not help realizing, that she was, indeed, beautiful. A bit too tender for his taste, maybe, but there was no harm in trying. The old pirate's credo. Take what you can.

If she would only stop talking.

* * *

There was an empty room, that was radiating hollowness. As if not only its inhabitants, and the furniture, but also the air and every memory had left it. The epitome of nothingness.

Desperation filled it, slowly, bit by bit, knowing, that it would remain like this, forever, forever, until at least, time would have spent all years it had to give and that would be rest.

Not a coincidence, why it was like this. And then there was rage, nameless rage.

Nobody ever gets what they deserve.

It was like sitting in a beautiful yard of fruits, craving for cherries. An inexplicable urge, but overpowering, breathtaking. Looking around, seeing apples, oranges, but not the desired one, because it was gone, not here. But there, between the leaves on the floor, there was a shimmer of red, like the memory of this fruit. One would race towards it, taste buds aching, only to find some strawberries, not cherries, but red, at least, and sweet as well.

So, unable of stopping, one would devour the strawberries with surprising appetite, the taste dampening the desire, but not curing it.

Knowing, one had just tasted forbidden fruit….

* * *

Leonora woke, the taste of strawberries still fresh in her mouth. The room was pitch dark, and only dimply, after a while, she could make out the shape towering over her. She recognized Jack Sparrow almost immediately, even before any shock had had the time to settle in.

She felt unsettled and did not like it, especially with him near. She had enjoyed their game, as long as it was a game, but right now, she had no mind for bantering, and knew well enough, that he would make use of that. She would, if she had the chance. So, with considerable effort, she put up a sneer, raising an eyebrow.

"You have nothing else to do at night, I presume?"

"Nah", he declined, shrugging. "Not as long as you keep on making enough noise to wake up the whole house."

She had not expected that. She remembered dreams as intense as she hardly ever experienced them, but embarrassment at her obvious discomfort was unexpected, but none the less fierce.

"One would have thought", she retorted, "considering the life you are leading, that that would not disturb you so."

"As always", he replied, "I am vastly underrated. But my enormous intuition tells me", he continued, watching her from the side as he placed himself unceremoniously on the side of her bed, "that something is amiss."

Leonora made a face.

"Remnants. Not worth the thought we are giving to them."

Jack grinned.

"What would you like to think of, then?" His eyes were scanning her shape quite deliberately. Leonora could not help smiling. Probably it was, indeed, his way of trying to cheer her um, if he continued their bantering of the day. The best thing was – intentionally or not, it was working.

"You are thinking way too much of yourself", she said, and lay back, turning her back to him. "You best go to sleep again, Sparrow", she counselled. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow."

He sighed in exasperation, but she did not react upon it. She had much to think about. And not all of it was connected to dark dreams.

* * *

She was sleeping uneasy still. From time to time, Weatherby Swann shot a glance at the glorious woman, who, now in sleep, seemed to be utterly vulnerable, tossing and turning, brow covered in sweat. He considered waking her, but that had not been a good idea when he had done it last time. He only dimly remembered the quarrel afterwards, and he did not want to quarrel with her. It was a very unpleasant thing to do.

Crystabella's mind reached out to the sea, tortured and torn by the dreams of Tia Dalma, trying to find an anchor to hold herself back, but the tides were strong.

She turned, torn and battered, to her sanctuary, the one place that she felt across the distance, and plunged deeply into the memories of times of old.

So many sensations… so very well known, traced, mapped, discovered so long ago. It was a place of old power, like the temples she had known in the old times, air vibrating with magic contained, but it had not been her who had wrought the spells. The magic was contained, formed, chained by the elements themselves.

And then there were the traces that she had left herself, traces of age-long imprisonment. Anger, fear, loneliness, rage, hate. Madness, only maybe.

Like they said, that everything that was imprisoned for too long was forced to decay.

She shied away from these familiar imprints. Never, never again would she submit to that. Never again.

She haunted her old halls, solaced from the dreams. It was too drenched with her essence for Tia Dalma to be able to penetrate into, and probably the only place where she could find rest from her dreams, at least in the Carribbean.

It was a reluctant kind of home… but it was home none the less.

She drifted through the halls, following old paths.

Then stopped.

Something was wrong.

Unfamiliar patterns, unfamiliar feelings. Something moving through her hallowed halls. Something alien. Something hostile…

She looked closer, and just as she realized who it was, she seethed with hate.

It was her. The girl. The one she had been chasing for so long. And the knight. Water and earth. Two of the seals.

She let out a scream of rage.

* * *

Leonora woke with a scream, and Jack Sparrow, who had slept, but uneasily, sat up in his bed at the sound.

"What is it?"

Her wide eyes sought his in the darkness. She was breathing heavily, her face covered with a tiny film of sweat.

"What are Norrington and Susannah doing?" she asked quietly. Sparrow shrugged.

"Tia Dalma was not very forthcoming about that one. Why?"

Leonora shook her head.

"Because they are in danger. In terrible danger. I do not know where they are, but they are somewhere where she can see them. And where she is sure to reach them."

"Ouch", Sparrow replied, making a face that in the darkness was very hard to see.

"So what do we do?"

The pirate rolled his eyes.

"Nothing, of course. There's nothing we can do right now, ye know? Wherever they are, its far away. And she's faster than us."

"Probably true."

Yet, while she felt no inclination of facing her mother again, still she could not shake the fear…

* * *

There was a tremor, like the earth shaking slightly, an animal trying to shake its riders.

Green eyes met dark ones in confusion and fear.

"What was that?"


	65. A star in the sky

A/N: Some may have been waiting for that to happen...

**A star in the sky**

„What was that?"

Softly, Susannah shook her head.

"I don't know."

James hesitated only for the slightest of moments, then nodded. Susannah marvelled again at the change that could run through him without any apparent effort at his slightest whim. His face went impassive, his posture rigid. He looked around, taking in every single bit of the corridor.

"We need to see the path of the water, don't we?" he asked, peering beyond the light of his torch into the darkness. Susannah only nodded.

"Then let's go."

He softly shoved her into motion, placing a careful hand on the small of her back for only the slightest of seconds. But even so, there was an incredible support in the gesture. And then he took the lead, his stride quick and confident. He was radiating determination.

Something seemed to thicken the air. Susannah found it difficult to keep up with James' long strides, but before she even had had the chance to fall back, he recognized her difficulties and slowed down his steps.

"Are you all right?" he asked between two steps, reaching out a hand to support her, then thinking better of it. Susannah, not knowing what she should answer, only shrugged.

"So far. But I think we are running out of time."

He looked around, obviously trying to understand what gave her this idea, but did not spend much time on it. He retook his step, and Susannah followed as quickly as she could, her breath loud in her own ears. The walls were beginning to radiate hostility, for the lack of a better word for it. Air, stone, everything was filled with a beginning rage, growing stronger and stronger as she went on. And all of a sudden, it was crystal clear."

"She knows."

He turned around again, his eyes intent.

"Are you sure?"

She did not dignify the question with an answer, and he did not wait long for it, taking her hand instead and continuing his stride quickly. He tried to support her best as she could, and Susannah did her best to detach herself from the surroundings, from the feeling of foreboding, to concentrate on what she had to do. She breathed in and out deeply, conjuring up the scent of a forest after fresh rain, a scent she knew only from dreams, but had known it to be comforting, most comforting and liberating. Otherwise, she relied on James to lead her through the darkness, and he did, paying attention to her every move.

And then, suddenly he stopped. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and his whole body went rigid. He was radiating tension, and Susannah lifted her head, knowing, that they would have reached the destination.

Everything in the room was full of him. It was, indeed the path of water, and the remnants of the seal still wavered around in it, just as they had in the fire sanctuary, but this time, the remnants recognized its keeper. The spell greeted its anchor, and the air sizzled with an ancient magic so complex, that Susannah found it hard to even concentrate on the threads.

"Is… is this what… you mean by… knowing?" he asked, hesitating, obviously relying on that she knew what he was talking about.

"This room has been connected to you for most of your life", she explained to him, softly, hoping once more that he would not shy away from the truth. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he did not. Yet this time, he could not deny anything.

"God in heaven", he whispered, and the palm, that was holding hers still had become cold, fingers holding on to hers for dear life as he was assaulted by images, notions, that he found difficult to sort. "I… I can't…."

She could feel his turmoil, sense his fight. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but he had never learned how to master it, had never learned about forces that were now threatening to carry him away.

Tia Dalma had said, that this might happen. And she had told her what to do. And now was not the time for second thoughts.

Stepping half around him, she placed a hand on his heart, feeling the erratic pulse beneath her fingers. And then, with a deep breath, she entered the tide rolling in, a rock, breaking the waves before they could assault him full force. He was trembling, being tossed and turned by the element that was so intrinsically his, and she called to him, conjuring up the breath of the forest, life, plants, everything that was growing, and sent it out to him, to be his lifeline, to give him a path to follow.

He struggled, but James Norrington was a strong man, and even at his worst still quite capable of mastering his thoughts. Slowly he was gaining the upper hand.

"Come to me…", Susannah whispered and the whisper carried through the forest smell, beckoning him to her.

And then, he was back. It was no soft transition, more like a hard jolt, just as she had experienced them when she first had had contact with her strange gift. They were standing, foreheads touching, their joined hands between them, both breathing erratically. He was everywhere. So close to her, and omnipresent in this room. It was overwhelming. She could get lost in this.

And then, he opened his eyes. And just for a moment, she saw a veil dropping there, his defense not yet fully in place, and what she saw took her breath in fear, and yet in joy. He was everywhere around her, but to his eyes, in his eyes, at this precious second, there was nothing but her.

"I…", he began, than stopped again, unsure what to say. And then finally, "thank you…" In a tone of soft wonder, a colour of voice she had never heard him use before.

And then there was another tremor running through the caves, stronger than the one before. He whirled around, looking around them, then placing Susannah protectively behind him. He lifted up the torch that he had dropped and looked around, with obvious effort shoving aside the effects of this place.

And there it was.

The cave ended in a small beach on the far side, stone decaying to rubbles, descending into sand, which finally gave way for a black pool, that seemed to go deep very quickly. Because inside the pool, anchored to the beach, was an enormous ship, a black shadow in the darkness. They could not see the name imprinted on it from where they were standing, but it was not necessary. Susannah swallowed hard.

They were about to meet the ghosts of their own pasts.

Getting into the ship was not as easy as one would think. There was no plank, only the anchoring rope, and while James was quite confident about being able to climb it, Susannah, on the other hand, was not. She voiced her doubts and he frowned, thinking for a moment.

"I will drop you a ladder then", he finally decided. All was quiet on the ship for now, and while both of them were doubtful that this would remain so, it seemed to be the best of choices.

With a worried heart, Susannah watched him climb up, holding the torch high in the hope, that at least a fraction of the light would reach him on the deck of the ship. But James, having been in the Navy for many years, seemed to find his way around with ease, and only moments later, a ladder was lowered from the upper deck to give Susannah access to the 'Prince of Wales'.

It was not easy to climb up, torch in her hand, but when she had reached the rail, he first took the light, and then she felt him grab for her arms and yanking her over the barrier carefully, his sure grasp preventing her even from a stumble.

He really was water.

Now that they were on it, they could see that the ship was in ruins. Ropes were torn, sails were ragged, and the image of decay could be seen everywhere.

And there was no one to be seen.

The ship lay in almost darkness, only their torch chasing the shadows. The entry into the ships belly, the masts, the cannons, the lifeboats, all were towering shapes in the darkness. The silence was weighing on her shoulder.

James looked at her, frowning.

"What now?"

"Where would your father be sleeping?"

She could see him steel himself again. Could see his eyes closing to her, his back straightening, as he took a deep breath.

"Follow me."

As they crossed towards the cabins, Susannah realized, that this ship indeed had similarities to the Black Pearl as well as the Mary of the Seas. Sparrow's – and Almington's – cabins had been placed in the same area that Norrington was now heading to, and it made sense as well, considering the fact, that this was a more protected area, and one, that allowed a good overview. Nothing but silence greeted them, as they approached, and all was calm, while Susannah's sense of foreboding grew. She was sure, that they had been discovered. She just was not sure, what that would mean.

Would Crystabella wake the Grey Storm? And would it fight them? It was a high gamble that they were playing, but if they had left right after she had found out that they were discovered, there would already have been no escaping the fury of the storm.

Therefore she was counting on the one ace she still had in her hand. She had seen hesitation aboard the 'Prince of Wales' when she passed them at their last confrontation, had felt a struggle.

Their only chance lay in the fact, that, the charm binding the captain of this vessel was one based on loyalty.

And that the loyalty of a father to his son was one of the strongest bonds that were.

She had not told James how much the outcome of this situation depended on him. He felt uneasy in the matters of interactions as it was. This was not the battlefield that he knew.

It was probably best that he did not feel the need to achieve anything. The whole situation was tender and painful enough without pressure.

Bitterly she thought, that in her considerations, she had started to be very similar to Tia Dalma, carefully providing only the necessary information.

She raised her head to look at James' features. They were sharp in the flickering torch light, and she could see the tension in his face.

Maybe, she thought, she had not needed to tell him. Maybe he had known all along.

* * *

They reached a door in the belly of the ship and James hesitated for a moment. His breath was coming flatly, as if he were fighting down something that threatened to come to the surface. Susannah understood. They were standing at the entrance to the captain's cabin. Still, they had not seen a soul or even a movement, yet Susannah felt, that this was about to change.

Obviously, James felt similarly.

He swallowed, hard, closing his eyes for a moment, the telltale image of a man trying to master his thoughts and feelings. On an impulse, Susannah placed a hand on his shoulder, and something lit up in his eyes, just so briefly.

She felt her breath hitch at that.

"I'm right here", she promised, as if that was all that needed to be said.

He nodded, briefly.

"I know."

And then, as if coming to a decision, he placed his hand on the handle and opened the door.

The room must have been grand, once. Pictures on the wall, a large table in the middle, still bearing the remnants of sea cards of the carribbean. A spring bow. A ruler.

A wooden cupboard bearing beautiful carvings, almost indistinguishable in the darkness, a small bedside table, and a large bed.

Upon it, lying as if in a coffin, was a man.

He was in full dress uniform, the cut unfamiliar to Susannah, ringing a very old bell to James, the fine cloth worn, old, yet still in order, as if cared for thoroughly. A tricorn was sitting on the bedside table.

He was lying perfectly still, and James was approaching him very slowly, very quietly. The look on his face was unreadable, as he finally stood at the bedside of the man, torch still in his hand. Susannah took her place on the opposite side of the bed, looking at him questioningly, and James nodded without ever taking his gaze of the sleeper.

His knuckles were turning white in a death grip, yet his voice was very calm, very controlled, when finally he spoke.

"Father."

The man opened his eyes, slowly. And just for a split second, a moment in time, his features slipped.

And opened the way into the abyss.

Fear, hope, pain, constant struggle, pride, pain, guilt, sadness. A world, all hidden in a moment's fancy. As if it had lain dormant just to be awakened at this very hour.

And a word.

"James."

The younger man nodded stiffly, and for a moment, the old captain closed his eyes, as if trying to hide the pride that had, for a second, lit up his eyes, but the illusion only held for a moment. He was tensing. And Susannah could feel the struggle coming before it happened.

"Why have… you come?" the older man pressed out between clenched teeth, opening his eyes again and fixing his son, laughing out wildly all of a sudden. "Foolish, foolish, like the lamb…" and then, screaming out loud, shaking his head wildly, he sat up.

"No.. no… go away…"

James dropped the torch and took a step towards him, placing both of his hands on his father's shoulders. His face was intent, and he was trying to stare into the older man's eyes, with only partial success.

"Father… what can I do."

So intent was his voice, bordering on desperation, that Susannah understood. A part of him, still searching for guidance, lost where he was right now, had harboured the folly hope, that here he would find a new course.

A rush of protective tenderness assaulted her, along with the fear, that he might fall again, seeing his hope destroyed.

"Nothing…." rasped the man, then, shaking his head again, trembling, "no… not him…", and then, looking up, "Run, James… for all that you still care… run my son…" "But run where, my best", he whispered. "I won't follow you on this! I won't chase my son!"

Like a desperate cry, a final summoning of forces. Yet, a laugh was all that it had earned him, coming from his own mouth, cold and uncaring.

James' face contorted in pain.

And Susannah reacted.

"Help me", she whispered, placing her hands on his, that were still lying on his father's shoulders. And then she let go.

"Two of the four in flesh", she whispered, doing what Tia Dalma had taught her. Voicing what she knew to make it substantial. Giving imagination form for it to accommodate human intuition. She brought forth the image of a cliff, rough sea crashing against a rocky shore, and she felt, as the picture took form, slight alterations in it… coastline, rock hue…

She realized it was James, feeling remembered of something by her picture, and his remembrance changed the form, changed the charm.

"Two of the four in spell."

The small leather purse wearing Sparrow's coin and a shell Tia Dalma had given her seemed to burn into her skin. A breeze took up, bringing in the tide, but there was no fire, no fire, nowhere.

"She can't come here, you know?" rasped the older man, then laughed coldly, yet Susannah focussed on the image, focussed on the cliff. She wound the image around James and his father, like the frame of a painting shielding them from the elements around, from the anger of the ghost, from the charms of this place. It came naturally to her, but she felt how it was draining her, how much concentration she used.

"James, quick", she whispered and almost, her control slipped, but she caught the image again before it was fading.

Father and son, standing on the cliff. One of them almost frantic, the other confused, but feeling a strange sort of relief.

"What would you have me do, father?" Urgency colored James' voice as he looked at his father.

"It was… foolish of you to come here", the older man said, shaking his head. "I cannot keep her forever. In the end, she always wins."

"Not if I can help it", James said, gritting his teeth. "Not this time. Help me, father. What can I do."

His father turned around, watching the cliff and the sea with wonderment.

"What is this place…?"

"A sanctuary", he replied and she felt a rush of pride for his quick intuition.

"Her voice is more quiet here…", the older Norrington whispered.

"What happened…?" James tried another path. "How did you come to be here…?"

For the first time since they had reached Susannah's charm, the older Norrington seemed to really see his son, looking into his face with tired, sad eyes.

"How old you have become…" He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "There was a storm haunting the carribbean." A bitter smile graced his face. "A storm just like we now have become one. And foolish as I was, I followed the advice of Jonathan Delanney to seek the counsel of a wise woman living on a small island. She told us, that the origin of this storm was to be found here, and she sent a young native girl with us, as guide and aid.

But all went wrong… so wrong.

There was something in the cave. Her. And…"

He shuddered violently.

And then, suddenly, raised his head again, gaze stern, and all of a sudden, Susannah saw the navy officer he once had been, stern, terrible, strong, just like his son had grown to be.

"James, listen carefully. I cannot resist her order for long. So run. Run. And always stay at twelve degrees in front of us. No matter what I do, no matter what the storm does. As long as we are following you, keep us exactly at this position. Keep a distance of about a mile and a half."

James frowned.

"Why?"

His father shook his head.

"I know the winds that follow me. I have known them for far too long. If you cannot race us with the wind coming from there, then you can from no where. Keep that in mind."

For a moment, James hesitated, but then, coming to a decision, he nodded.

"I will." Then, after another moment. "I will end this, father."

For a moment, the stern gaze wavered, making way for something warmer, something more tender.

"I know. I am very proud of you."

For a moment, James seemed to want to say something, but then, he only nodded and bowed curtly.

She dropped the spell.

Like a surge, the strain ran out of her, and she felt the power of the charm that she had weaved – and the void that the power spent had left in her.

Her legs gave way, but she never fell.

Instead, a cacophony started around her, calls, screams, as the courageous Norrington senior tried to buy his son a few more minutes, and as that very son lifted her up to carry her out of the room.

She tried to find her grip on reality again, but it was difficult, with all the raging around her, of which she could not tell clearly what was real and what was not.

Suddenly, the floor under her feet.

"Can you stand…?"

Green eyes, watching her, alight with worry. But she forced herself back into reality, breathing deeply, and the world became more substantial around her. She nodded.

He carefully released her, following with a second question.

"Can you climb…?"

She was not sure, but she confirmed. She simply had to be able to.

He sensed her insecurity, but also her reasons for her answer, and therefore he started in front of her, to be able to catch her, should she fall.

But Susannah thought of hills smelling of fresh rain, and suddenly, she was standing at the bottom of the slowly awakening ship.

Her head was spinning violently.

He grabbed her at the waist and hauled her with him, dragging her on, almost mercilessly, through corridors and halls, yanking her up again when she lost her step, never letting her fall, but never slowing down, either. His breath was coming hard, but he had learned long ago not to be conquered easily by fatigue.

Their flight passed in a blur, and suddenly, there was warm night, stars, the forest, and she could feel the evil rising between the islands.

"James..", she whispered, but he only replied, "I know", and quickened his pace once more. Forest, forest, then sand. Slowly, her mind cleared, leaving her exhausted, but at least awake. When finally her senses registered again what was going on, she was sitting in the small lifeboat, being rowed back to the ship that had brought them here. Norrington was making speed, waving at the two natives on the ship, as soon as they could see him, and they started to get the sails ready.

He seemed so calm, she envied him of it. Especially when she was dying of fear. Because the Grey Storm was coming, rising between the islands, and even if it may be reluctant, still it would not be stopped, not by her, not by anyone.

Not today.

James gripped the rows tightly, his face set in deadly determination. She could not guess what was going on in his mind, but whatever it was, it seemed to give him force and strength, and in magic and war, strength of will was one of the best weapons to be had.

* * *

And soon, hell was upon them. Rain and wind, storm tearing at their sails. And now, after all, she learned, why it was, that James Norrington had been the scourge of the Carribbean, and why it was, that he had been the nightmare of every pirate in this sea.

In his element again, he was terrible. He mastered the wind, rode the storm, their small nutshell being thrown about by the waves, but never overcome. Like gunshots, his orders shot over the deck.

"Lower the main sail by two meters.."

"Two additional ropes to anchor the main mast."

"Secure all luggage that has fallen towards the heck. Leave the rest."

He was standing at the rail, calm amidst the storm, totally drenched as they all were, keeping a steady course against the storm. Time and again he looked back, where, far off, their hunter was to be seen, yet they kept their distance, and kept their angle, and while the boat creaked in the wind, it held its course.

Susannah, understanding not half on what he was doing, followed his orders as quickly as she could, suddenly thankful for her time on the 'Mary of the seas', where she had learned at least a basic understanding of naval matters, and she tried to be of as much use as she could.

Her dress was heavy with rain, and soon, she was exhausted beyond words, but the storm gave them no rest and neither did James.

They fought for their survival.

She lost all sense of time, her only measure of it the crashing of the waves, the lightnings, the rolls of thunder. Hours passed. Maybe more.

She tumbled over the deck, almost being washed into the sea, had it not been for the rope tied securely around her waist, before all of this had started, and fought to get to her feet again. Her strength was waning.

He yelled at her. Giving in was not an option. And he was right. It was not.

Somewhere within herself, there were quiet resources, small remnants of what had been strength once, and she ran again, for endless, countless times.

They raced through the night and another day, and as dusk was falling, finally, the assault waned. There was a sudden warmth in the air, like fire greeting someone come home.

They had left the ghost's dominion. Tia Dalma's fire was protecting them now. Far off, they could see a ship driving towards them.

Susannah sank to her knees, saw the two native boys dropping down, where they had stood, drenched, exhausted, totally drained. And James, securing the helm with the last of his force, staggered towards her.

His face was grey with exhaustion.

He dropped to her height in front of her, breathing heavily, drenched as she was, brown hair hanging in loose strands.

But his eyes, so tired and exhausted, were so very, very alive.

"Thank you", he whispered, and she did not know for what, since it had been him, who had brought them through this storm, but he repeated it, again, closing his arms around her in a swift move, her head hiding at his chest as she felt his hands gripping her black locks. "Thank you…", he repeated, letting her go just enough to place his forehead against hers, still breathing heavily, his gaze burning into hers. Her breath mingled with his, and the world stood still as she closed her eyes.

"Susannah…" Was that her name? She was not sure, for the foreign sound it had to it, a whisper, and then followed by the miracle of miracles, a brush of his lips against her own, stopping her heart and her breath. Yet all she wished for, was more, and when he whispered her name again, she silenced him, and all was quiet, and relief, and wonder, and magic beyond anything, that she had ever experienced. She trembled and felt his hand shaking slightly in her hair, but it was exhaustion and wonder, because there could be no fear, no regret, as she was kissing him as she now knew she had wanted to.

Earth and water met, on the sea, at the shore, as ships finally reached home.


	66. Castling

**Castling**

"Dearest Elizabeth!"

Will Turner remembered something Elizabeth had said some while ago about their mutual ally and part-time friend Jack Sparrow, and at this moment, in a tavern in Spanish town, or Sevilla Nuova, as Fernando Castellano preferred to call it, it seemed truer than ever before.

The kinder he gets, the more friendly and cordial, the more careful one should be.

Which was exactly, why William Turner was extremely on his guard, when Jack Sparrow greeted them with grand gesture and a smile that would have passed the strait of Gibraltar. Elizabeth shot him a quick sideward glance that told him, that she was thinking exactly the same thing, and without knowing why, he felt glad for this sudden companionship.

For a wild, irrational moment, he felt reminded of days hiding somewhere in the residence, while Elizabeth talked to some guest of her fathers, shooting glances at him, that told him more than any words would ever have done.

The wild, careless days of youth seemed very far away, these days.

Caution nonewithstanding, he was glad to see Jack Sparrow again. He had, in his own, very strange way, helped them in the past, and William had not forgotten his part in the whole Isla de la Muerta disaster. Finally, he had acted very much not like a pirate in not abandoning him, and Will had appreciated this indeed.

Right now, Jack Sparrow greeted Elizabeth, bowing deeply, mock glinting in his eye, only to turn to Will to include him into an elaborate, and – given the circumstances – cordial welcome.

Castellano, who, standing a step behind them, watched the whole scenery with considerable amusement, only earned himself a brief nod, and Will wondered, what the spanish captain had done to gain Jack Sparrow's misfavour.

Leonora Halvery, however, was a very different matter.

She was sitting at the table when they arrived, quietly sipping on a beer, but Will was not fooled by her outwardly unruffled behaviour. Elizabeth had thought her odd from the first day, and all that he had seen of her confirmed the suspicion, that while in Port Royal, she had been somewhat less than herself.

Now she was looking better, definitely, her gaze more awake, following their movements, but Will remained alert. Too much in this story had yet proven itself to be not quite what it seemed.

"Miss Swann…"

She had a schooled voice, so much was sure, not a hint of spanish in her tone, but that was not surprising from what they had learned of Leonora Halvery's life up to today. She got up, bowing to the british woman, and now for the first time, Will realized, that they both stood the same height.

"Miss Halvery." From what he could tell, Elizabeth greeted her as an equal, yet, knowing her so well, Will recognized the tension in her shoulders. The change to Leonora Halvery's demeanor was apparent, yet, what that change had caused, and to what end that change would be, no one could tell. "How are you feeling?"

Leonora squinted, her gaze wandering between Elizabeth and Will. There was intelligence lying in the dark depths as she watched him for a moment, a small, ironic smile dancing around the corners of her mouth.

"Oh please…" In a gesture, that was suspiciously similar to one Crystabella Halvery might have used, she waved aside anything she might have seen in their faces. "As appealing as this game of hide and seek seems to be…", she flashed a grin that was almost mirthful, "let's straighten this out quickly to save all of us some time, shall we?"

Elizabeth, even though she seemed as surprised as Will, found it in herself to wave graciously.

"Please."

Leonora sat again, motioning the newly arrived to do the same. Castellano complied, while Will and Elizabeth exchanged another gaze before sitting down as well. The situation was doing nothing to soothe their nerves, however.

"The last time we met", Leonora Halvery began, turning to Elizabeth, "I was not… quite myself." She seemed to have a fondness for being blunt, she certainly did not beat about the bush. The smile still danced around her lips, and Will was still trying to decide, whether it was ironic, arrogant or just a very strange display of annoyance. "That", the spanish woman continued, "has changed."

So much, Will thought, for stating the obvious. Yet, he was tired of games of hide-and-seek. He was quite sure, that Elizabeth, if she deemed it necessary, would fence with Leonora for quite some time to wrestle information out of it, that she would resort to quite a lot of subtle and blunt measures to learn, whether Leonora could be trusted. However, a crossing on Castellano's 'Rosa' had presented him with about just as many games of politics as he found himself to be able to bear.

"And I suppose, we are to take your word for it…?"

Leonora turned to him, brows raised, as if he had surprised her. For a moment, a crease appeared on her forehead, but then she smiled and nodded to herself.

"It is difficult, I surely understand that. Since you have apparently had some encounters of similar kinds as well, you might know, that in the Caribbean, there are things afoot, that do not quite fit the picture that they make us believe during our lessons, are there? So, what can I say? Yes. I was… not myself. You may well have discovered already, that the dear lady that has been scouring Port Royal for the last weeks is not my mother, no matter, what she claims to be. Whatever she is, she is something that dressed up like my mother. And more to that. She was… able to control me. To read my mind. Her display of Crystabella Halvery is so convincing, because she knows my mother exactly as well as I do. Which apparently was enough to convince your father." She nodded to Elizabeth graciously, and for a moment, Will saw, that there was indeed something of her mother's grandeur in Leonora, diminished, paled, yet undeniably there. She was a Halvery after all. "Unfortunately, I was under almost complete control of that thing, and only on very few occasions I managed to slip from her grasp for a little while. In the beginning, I tried to escape, but I soon learned – the hard way, I might add – that her control over me ranged quite far. So I took other measures to alert others, namely you, Miss Swann, of my situation. I could only do that in a veiled way, of course, but since I remember you asking me about Hungerford, I guess, that you went to London to find out, that my parents have indeed been six feet under for some time, isn't it so?"

Elizabeth nodded warily.

"Well. While you were in London, hunting for clues about my mother, I was… freed. Which brings me now in the position to do something to stop the ghost that has used me in that manner."

Only her fists, clenching and unclenching on the table, belied her unrest.

"Freed meaning…?"

"Oh, my dear…" That was Jack Sparrow, intercepting with grand gesture. He sat there, looking thoroughly comfortable. "I thought, it would have been obvious. I had the help of a very skilled... dare I say it... sorceress. Who, by all intents and purposes, is a very convenient person to know at the present."

"So she is completely free of the ghost's influence now", Elizabeth tried to gain what information she could from Sparrow.

"Well… completely… what is completely…" He winced, then smiled. "Well, she is master of her own senses, as much as a woman of her kind can be, anyway. And of course, she is utterly trustworthy, which is something, that the good captain here would certainly confirm. And since this influence has been cleared enough for her to be herself again, who is asking about few sparks, flickle things really, hardly worth the mentioning, and thus…"

"I still dream", Leonora cut his speech short. "But that may be more of an advantage than a disadvantage." If she was disturbed by the fact, that remnants of the ghost were still disrupting her sleep, nothing in her face did say anything about it.

"As far as information is concerned", Castellano precised. He had been surprisingly silent up to now, observing and listening, only throwing in the occasional comment.

"And this sorceress… she will help us to get rid of the ghost."

"In a way", Jack Sparrow said. "I will leave the details to her. All I can say is, that she has sent out an invitation to you, and that is not something, that you should dismiss easily… consider it a tea party, will you?"

Elizabeth sighed.

"And she wants to see all of us."

"Not in so many words, no, she didn't… She wanted to see you." An unsteady finger pointed to Elizabeth. "And you…" Will found himself under Sparrow's scrutiny.

"As for you…", he turned to Castellano, "she didn't exactly mention you. Yet… she has been known not to bite off the head of uninvited visitors when being in a good mood. And she might bite my head off if she wanted to see you and I did not bring you, so between us, I think, you should come."

"Encouraging", Castellano replied drily, yet he did not comment further on Sparrows estimation of his value.

Will was by no means sure, that any of the two should be trusted. But it seemed, as if for now, they were their only lead.

* * *

"Do you believe her?"

She was standing beside him, as if nothing had happened, aboard the 'Rosa', surveying the port. For a moment, he could delude himself, that they were still just William and Elizabeth, and that there had nothing come between them.

"I'm not sure", he said, uncertainly. "There is no way we can tell, really. I would like to believe her."

"She has changed very much from what I have seen. Something has happened, so much is for sure. I spoke to Castellano, who has met her before all this, and he says, that it adds up quite well."

Will smiled drily.

"And do you believe him?"

"He does want her for his own goals, so he should hope to have a Leonora Halvery at his hands, who knows, what she is doing."

Will fell silent. The remnants of their quarrel were hanging between them like a veil, brutally called forth again by her reference to the source of their trouble. From the corner of his eye, he observed Elizabeth.

He could see she was tired. Whether it was the light, a change of his mind, or the simple fact, that now, that they were back in the Caribbean, she allowed herself to relax, even a little, now he could see, that something was eating away at her as well. She looked gaunt, haggard, in her own way, as she stared out at the sea.

It was a saddening sight to see on the one he loved, and it tore at him, painfully.

"Elizabeth." He would have loved to be more persistent. Would have loved to wait for her to move towards him, but he could not stand the pain. So he turned towards her.

She did not respond in kind but looked down onto her hands that were loosely placed on the rail. Her lips thinned as she pressed them together.

"Yes?"

"It's me, Elizabeth." How to reach her, now, that she was so withdrawn, now, that she was so far away from him? William Turner was by no means an expert in this. But the only thing, that had gotten him in the position he was now with her – both the good and the bad – had been to be honest to her and true to himself. He was not good at conceiling, and now would be a very inconvenient time to start. "Remember…?"

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She was silent for a long time, and when she finally answered, it was barely audible.

"Will…?"

It was enough. There was a world in this word, a world, that spoke everything that she could not. Pain. Longing. Loneliness.

He took a step towards her, now at arm's reach. He could have touched her, if he had wanted.

"My father is in the hands of a monster."

Louder now, but still barely audible above the waves. Yet, in her voice there were all the tears that she forbid herself to cry. Her voice almost broke, and only with the utmost concentration, she kept it together.

"We will help him", he reassured her, because it was the only thing he could think of, the only thing to ease her pain and worries. "We will help him."

She raised her head, and now, that she was looking at him, he could see the tears swimming in her eyes, the trembling of her lips. Even in despair, she was still beautiful. So beautiful…

He stepped forward and drew her into his arms.

Something binding her broke, and she clung to him like a drowning man to a log, silent sobs wrecking her body. He held her, tightly, as if by only steadying her he could stop her shaking, he could chase away the demons that were haunting her, but for the moment, all he could do was to rock her softly and whisper encouraging things to her that even seconds afterwards he did not even remember.

But she was there, again, in his arms, at his side, and seeing her thus, trembling, undone, in pain, showed, that at least, she was still trusting in him, still relying on him, and suddenly, not all seemed lost.

Eternities passed, as he held her and she cried herself out, before finally, words became to mingle with her sobs, ununderstandable at first, clearer later.

"I'm sorry, Will, I'm so sorry. I hurt you. I'm sorry…"

He would have never hoped to hear these words from her again. And yet, the ferocity of her whispers alone were telltale signs of their sincerity, and all of a sudden, the valley between them had vanished, as if it never had been there.

He pushed himself back, just enough to look into her tear-stricken face and put his fingers against her chin, carefully, ever so carefully, as if holding a delicate gem. He looked at her, her eyes red from crying, but she held his gaze, and all of a sudden, this was again Elizabeth… Elizabeth, and then he was lost.

She tasted of sweetness and salt, and in the moment that he lost himself he failed to understand how he had even survived without her.

* * *

It seemed, as if there had to be more to it to surprise Leonora Halvery than just show up at her room in the evening, when the person that was usually staying there with was surprisingly absent, because the gaze with which she mustered Will as he entered was something between being amused and being curious. Yet, given the situation, it was probably for the best, that she was in a stable frame of mind.

He was not sure how much time he had. Elizabeth was distracting Jack, and she was usually good at that sort of thing, but Will would have preferred not to take any chances, anyway.

"I apologize for intruding", he therefore said. "Do you have a moment?"

She looked around with grand gesture. She had been sitting on her bed, reading a parchment, yet her expression now showed that of utter boredom.

"I'm sure the crowds will part sufficiently for you", she replied drily.

After a moment's hesitation he thanked her and took a seat on the bed on the other side of the small room.

"I've come to… issue a warning."

That earned him a raised brow, and she bowed towards him a little. He was not sure whether the alarm in her eyes was real, but deep down he felt quite certain, that the little frown on her features was, indeed, genuine.

"I'm listening."

"Well… to begin with… we came to be in the company of Captain Castellano… not precisely out of our own free will."

Her lips twitched in apparent amusement at that. "To be honest, he bribed the captain of the ship that should bring us here to deliver us to him instead."

"Sounds exactly like the sort of thing he would do"; she dismissed with a shrug.

"Well… he did offer us some help considering our… current situation and especially that of Port Royal."

The frown on her face deepened, and she was quite obviously intrigued. No wonder, since the spanish should have rejoiced in british peril. "There was of course a price to it", Will continued. "A price we… had no choice but to pay… for the moment." He took a deep breath before the plunge. "Well, he demanded that when this is over, you should be handed over to him."

Again, she raised both brows, her lips molding into a pout as she digested this information.

"Ah", she said, finally. "I see."

"We thought it fair to warn you", Will explained, feeling a bit unsettled by the lack of true reaction from her. He would have expected scorn, or reprimands, or fear, depending on the temperament of the lady.

Silence was a strange reaction.

"Generous of you"; she replied with a smile. "So you betray your own trade for… the quiet of your conscience?"

He felt offended at that – and the need to defend himself.

"It was a forced trade, Miss Halvery. That is hardly fair."

"Fair…", she chewed on the word, leaning back, propped up on both hands. "A strange notion of the world that you have there, Mister Turner."

"So you do not oppose going with him?"

"I had been wondering", Leonora admitted, "what brought Castellano into this whole story. Well, one mystery solved, at least. I should feel flattered." It occurred to Will, that maybe, she really did. "As for me going with him… it's not really your business, is it?" She smiled towards him, under half-closed lashes, suddenly seeming quite a lot younger than before. "But since you so valiantly told me of all this – I will be considering it… maybe. I have not had much time to think beyound thanking my mother's impostor for her troubles, to be honest."

"If you feel pressed by him, there may be other ways to get you out, before he gets a hand on you, if that is what you want. I might have…"

She raised a hand, the amused smile back in full glory.

"Will Turner", she said, almost affectionately. "Jack was right about you."

He frowned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are much too noble for your own good. I may come back to that offer of yours. Yet them, I may not…"

She shrugged and got up, placing the parchment on the table, laden with paper.

"Some story we are in, Will Turner, aren't we?"

He was unsure, what she expected for an answer, but apparently, she did not really wait for one.

"Don't fret, Wiliam. I will stand my own ground." She looked back to him over her shoulder, smiling almost softly, with only the slightest hint of steel to it. "I have done so, always. Being a pawn isn't all that bad."

He was not sure whether her twinkle was flirtatious, an attempt at levity or a gesture of a completely different kind.

* * *

According to the late Crystabella Halvery, who had been an expert in this field, there were three basic rules to conduct a successful negotiation.

Point the first: Know your opponent

Point the second: Know yourself

Point the third: Always weave in a surprise

All of them right before me, Leonora Halvery thought, with the remnant of a whistful smile. Mother, are you watching?

Will kept his distance, having returned to the boat with her. The crew had apparently mistaken her for Elizabeth, leaving her alone to roam over the ship.

She knew exactly, where she was going.

The door creaked when she opened it, and the lone frame sitting at the table whirled around, instantly alert.

In a studied pose, she leaned to the doorframe, smiling from half-lidded eyes.

"Fernando", she purred. "It's been a while."

"I was wondering if you'd come." He had collected himself quickly, but not quickly enough for her to miss the utter surprise, that had crossed his features. "Please, sit."

She complied and he went to a cabinet, pulling out a decanter of red, rich wine, pouring himself a glass and handing her a second.

"Lefariac", he recommended. "From the feet of the Pyrenees. A gem."

She smiled and acknowledged, nodding.

"I appreciate it." She remembered him correctly, she found, after having seen him this afternoon and having remembered her first two encounters with the captain. He was smooth, friendly, well-mannered and pleasant to be around. She smiled. "A touch of spanish hospitality."

"Sorely missed of late, indeed." Castellano took a sip from his glass and Leonora followed suit, savouring the rich, strong flavour. "So, Leonora", he continued, putting and emphasis on her given name, "what do you make of all this."

She smiled a little wrily.

"I am hardly in a position to deny that the core of it is true. As for the implications…" She shrugged, dosing her smile to be somewhere between charming and embarrassed. "… I do not think I am competent enough to judge."

Castellano raised his brows.

"Attempting at modesty, are we?" He shook his head. "I am not sure whether to feel insulted or just confused. The question is – where will we come out of this?"

"I don't really see a way of doing this without also helping the british in Port Royal, alas. Unless, of course, we find a way to get rid of Norrington, but I would advise against it."

"Why?" Castellano took another sip.

"Too many uncalculable odds. Especially that seeress who is in for the ride as well. I would hate for her support to wane the moment we are facing my mother. She might take it badly, if something happened to the sea wolf."

"Women", Castellano scolded, shaking his head, but his heart was obviously not in it.

"We might be able to retain one of the two that you brought."

Fernando nodded slowly.

"We might. Although I confess that I have gotten used to their presence during the past weeks. I would hate to be forced to go up against them. They make up for pleasant company, if not crossed to severly."

"What an extraordinary compliment." Leonora was indeed surprised at this statement from the captain. "But you are right. It would be unfortunate."

"We will see, then", Castellano concluded, looking into his glass before taking another sip. "Look where the tide takes us and then make the best of it. I am sure, we will be able to."

"Doubtless", Leonora confirmed. She had done so frequently, and there was no reason, why this should not work in the near future any more.

"If you forgive me saying so"; he continued, his voice studied and warm, "it is nice to see you in person once more. I have come to know only your script, and as we both know, that is not much of a trademark sign. You have been missed, Miss Halvery."

"I am glad to hear this"; she replied, smiling. "But tell me Captain… how are things back home? And are the coasts of Andaluz still as flawless as they were, when I last saw them?"

Castellano leaned back carefully, taking another sip of his glass, before he began.

And Leonora, dark eyes glowing, yearned for stories of a home, that she had never fallen to behold with her own eyes.


	67. So weigh the words and hearts so well

**So weigh the words and hearts so well**

When they woke again, it was late afternoon, the sun already wandering towards the horizon in the east, but they had needed every hour of sleep. Exhaustion had waned, but not vanished, when he finally opened his eyes and found that he would be unable to return to sleep. Far from being rested, he was none the less too tense, to strung to find soothing in oblivion again. It was a familiar sentiment, the remnants of the tension that had gripped him, when they had sailed through the storm.

And yet, racing away from the ship that was captained by his father had been a revelation in itself. His father had been right, at the angle he had suggested, the winds were strong, but steady, something, that could hardly be said for the rest of the swirl, and therefore, the storm had driven them away from itself as long as it was chasing them, and as long as they were capable of keeping in that position.

But this had been a solvable task for someone who took pride in the fact of being the most capable navy captain of the Carribean.

And somewhere in the panic, gripping the wheel tightly, being tossed and turned in the wind, somewhere on the sea, in the middle of a storm, he had found something he had thought lost, a shred of his old courage, a shred of his old self. Like nothing else, racing this storm had taught him again, why he had chosen the life he had, and why he had been good at it. There was steel beneath all the pain that had driven him to Tortuga, and for a precious moment, he had felt what it meant to be himself again.

A rare moment of calm, but incredibly soothing in its effect.

He wondered, if she had known, what it would do to him. It was hard to tell what passed behind Susannah's dark eyes at times, but she had not given up on him. That was probably the most stunning revelation of all. When they had raced through the storm and Susannah had, like the two natives, been of great help in bringing them through, he had caught a gaze or two of her, that had been full of relief, a strange notion given their situation then, full of relief and – even stranger – he was sure to have seen the tiniest spark of triumph in her eyes.

She had never given up on him, even when he had. He wondered, where she had found the confidence.

Susannah…

All that had passed when they reached Tia Dalma's island rushed back on him. He had behaved in the most inappropriate way, but try as he might, he did not find it in himself to regret it.

Susannah…

He opened his eyes. She was awake already, sitting in the frame of cottage door, looking out onto the beach and the light framed her shilouette only as she watched motionlessly.

He sat up, and apparently she heard him stir, for she turned, and even though he could not clearly see it in the light behind her, he was almost sure he saw her smile.

„Good morning." Quiet as always, with underlying softness. He returned the greeting, marvelling at the fact, that for once, he felt comfortable to be alone with her. He had no idea how their relationship could be called, but for whatever reason it seemed just natural to be around her. He wondered, whether this was part of the charm and found, that he not really cared.

„Are you rested?" he asked her, allowing concern to creep into his voice. How long had she been up? How long had she slept? She shrugged softly, her gown rustling.

„A little", she replied before turning back to the sea, sun bathing her face. „I've been thinking, James." He frowned, as he sensed her becoming detached again, her back turned towards him a visible barrier between him and what she saw. He was surprised how painful it was to be thus seperated from her, but the moment did not last, because she turned again, a surprisingly young smile on her face. He was not sure, whether he had ever seen her smile like that, and he found, that he would very much like to know, what called forth this, for further reference and use. „Come", she said, stretching out her hand towards him. „Walk with me. Lua-Phey has brought us something to eat and drink."

He was, indeed, starved, and he suspected that Susannah had waited for him to wake before taking her share, and therefore he stood up, took her hand and carefully pulled her to her feet, releasing her with a second's delay.

A crude basket was standing in the shadow of the cottage, filled with coconuts, mangoes and an assortment of other fruits. He took it and followed her as she walked towards the beach, into the hot afternoon sun.

She placed herself into the sand, close to the waterline, where the wind made the temperature bearable, and as he placed himself next to her, he recognized the side effects that her apparent style of living had had on her. She was developing a soft tan that went well with her black curls. The freckles were much more pronounced than he had ever seen them.

She looked, for the lack of a better word, free. Freed maybe. And relieved. He wondered, whether he had had any part in this transformation.

They began to eat and Susannah looked around. There was nothing but beach around them for maybe a hundred meters, and the slight crease between her brows told him, that this was no coincidence.

„Are you worried about being overheard?" he asked. She shot him a quick glance, as if surprised, then nodded, drinking from an open coconut before she answered.

„Maybe", she replied. „Like I said… I've been thinking."

James put aside the knife he had used to slice open the fruits, watching her with a raised brow.

„So…?"

„What do you know about the Odyssee?" James frowned, once more trying to remember lessons long buried. He had read parts of it as a boy, even liked it. Yet, it was a long time ago. He scrambled together what he remembered. The great captain of the Troy siege. The cyclops, blinded by Odysseus' cunning scheme. The lastrygons, killing most of his fleet, save the one, remaining ship. The charms of the sorceress Kirke.

Susannah raised a hand, and he fell silent. Thoughtfully, she gazed out onto the sea.

„Kirke", she mused. „They say, she loved Odysseus, once. They also say, that she had a voice to enchant those, who would listen. They say, that she wound a net of words along those, who fell prey to her. To listen to her, to believe her words, to open towards her and trust her was to give her power."

She trailed her fingers over the sand, weaving patterns that made no sense to him. Yet, with a jolt, he understood what she was trying to say. It was, however, utter madness.

„You cannot be seriously considering, that the… ghost that we have been chasing is the sorceress Kirke…" He shook his head, only to be faced with Susannah's serious dark eyes.

„Why not, James? The greek colums. The statue of Odysseus. The bow. It was cared for with love. Maybe by her. She was capable of turning Odysseus' men into pigs by the pure power of her voice. Maybe they really were pigs. Or maybe, they just lost every strength of will that they had. It is hard to say how much truth there is to the story, but the picture is clear, is it not?"

He sighed, supporting his arms by propped-up knees.

„This is very difficult to believe."

„I know", Susannah replied. „I am not sure myself, do not read me wrong."

She lay back onto the sand, her hands crossed behind her head, squinting up into the skies. The sun was filling her features and brought into sharp relief the freckes, that were lining her nose and cheeks. It was a sight that a part of him was sure he should not see, a woman so dissheveled, spread out on the sand next to him. And yet, he could not bring himself to even allow that thought, because this was Susannah, and somehow, rules did not apply as they should when it came to her. „You see", she continued, turning her head towards him. „Kirke was not evil. At least, not totally. She came to like Odysseus, and in the end, she let him go. The… thing, that now wears Crystabella Halvery's face is… different."

„A prison can do this to persons of lower morality", James replied, speaking from personal observation. Carefully, he stretched out a hand to trace the outline of her face. „People follow that road readily", he said sadly. „The path is broad."

Painfully, he remembered, how very close he had come to this himself. Yet Susannah, freeing her hand from beneath her head, caught his wandering fingers in hers. A moment in time, she just held them, and then, ever so softly, she shook her head. A silent reassurance, that was all the more welcome. He swallowed, hard, and when he continued, his voice was a trifle rough as he forced himself back to the subject of their discussion.

„But if she let him go, then why was she imprisoned?"

Susannah tightened her lips, taking a deep breath.

„That is the question, is it not? And it directly leads to my second one. Who is Tia Dalma? And what is she using us for?"

„A disquieting thought", he had to admit, yet it did not surprise him much. He had not trusted the witch woman, since he had come here, and he was quite sure, that the same went for Susannah. The fall was not deep.

„I will ask her", the young seeress continued, determination in her voice. She was staring at the skies again, fingers still linked with his, and he could not shake the feeling, that this connection alone kept her from shrinking away. Worry gripped him at the sight – and at her words.

„Do you think that this is wise?" he asked carefully, and Susannah shrugged, frowning.

„I am not sure", she replied. „But I will not be her tool, unless I know what she really wants. I am… tired of being the pawn."

He could heartily agree to that. He did not feel comfortable in that role as well, and neither did he like the thought of placing the fragile woman at his side on the line in a fight of which he did not even know, whether it was justified.

„I will accompagny you, if that is your wish."

She turned towards him, and he realized, that he had earned himself another of her smiles, surprisingly open, a hint of mirth in the dark eyes.

„Thank you", she said, and, taken by the moment, he raised her fingers to his mouth to place a kiss upon them, lips touching the bare skin. The epitome of impropriety in society, yet at this place, at this time, the gesture seemed to be natural.

„Always", he whispered, knowing it was a promise.

And again, she smiled.

* * *

When the small boat, softly being rocked by the stream, approached the cottage Tia Dalma was living in, dusk had already settled in, turning the sky first a glorious red, before changing it to a smooth, dark velvet that he had always appreciated, if in silence.

He was rowing the boat with careful, soft movements, while Susannah sat aft, troubled look scanning the jungle and swamp around them. They had spent their trip in silence, and he had been pondering what she said to him. It made more sense, than he would have cared to admit. Never the less, he understood her anxiety of confronting a being such as Tia Dalma. And he wished there was something he could do to help her.

He was unsure of how to behave. He did not feel inclined towards giving hollow reassurances, even though he would have done quite a lot – even against his own, better knowledge – to chase that haunted look from Susannah's eyes. Yet, she saw and knew much. It felt like an insult to tell her that everything would be going well, when it was painfully obvious, that this was nowhere near certain.

Not quite, as he thought wrily, his level of expertise. He had always been aware of the fact, that he was awkward around women, and the more awkward, the more he cared. Susannah was not Elizabeth, in no way conceivable, yet, it took all the conscious effort he could muster not to shrink back from a situation like this, but to remain opened towards her.

It would have been literally impossible, had he been back in Port Royal.

„She knows we are coming", Susannah breached the silence, and he raised his head in alarm. The seeress was trailing her hands through the water, gazing at the jungle around.

„How do you know?"

She smiled softly, tingled with a notion he felt unable to place correctly.

„The winds bid us a cautious welcome", she replied in the thoughtful manner he had already come to expect from her. But then, looking up again, he finally recognized, what was coloring her smile so unfamiliarly.

Mirth.

„And she is standing on her balcony watching us."

He turned around, and indeed, the river had bent, and now he could see her cottage, lit by the warm glow of dozens of candles. She was watching their approach silently, and it was a disquieting sight. They were not entirely welcome.

He turned to Susannah, who, even though remnants of worry stood on her face, shrugged, laughing silently. He had seen her laugh before, but rarely, and it transformed her face, and dangerous situation or no, he found himself smiling in response. The surprising attempt at levity lifted his spirits and he shook his head in disbelief. It was at once marvellous and inexplicable, what effect she had on him.

During her apprenticeship, the long hours spent in the company of only Tia Dalma, Susannah had slowly come to learn her moods. The witch woman was changeable as the sea, but there were constancies, vibrances in the demeanor that her inexplicable senses picked up, and she had learned to pay attention to them.

When she climbed up the ladder leading to the wooden veranda of Tia Dalma's house, she felt, that she was stepping onto a powder barrel. Her mother had had an expression for situations like this : to walk on the edge of a knife.

Yet, she had decided, that the games played were at an end, and if the senses of the witch woman were anywhere near as fine as her own regarding this, then Tia Dalma already knew of her resolve.

Just as well, then, she thought. Cards on the table.

She had never been good at bluntness, but now, the urge to get this conversation over with, was encouraging her not to beat around the bush for long.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see James following her, his steps sure, an constancy refound, that was captivating and reassuring.

„Stay out of it, please", she had pleaded with him. He was, usually, smart enough to know, when to speak out and when better to remain silent, but things had changed since their last talk with Tia. And one look into his eyes told her, that he would go out of his way to protect her.

A feeling, so unfamiliar, that she could not even put a name to it.

„I will try", he had nodded, gathering her meaning despite his instincts to do otherwise, and she knew, this was as much as he would – could – give her. She was also aware of the enormity of trust he was giving her, in just these little words.

They stood on the veranda looking out towards the stream, Tia tilted towards them, while Susannah was staring out, sightlessly, gathering her courage.

„You doubt", the witch said, finally, her tone sharp, her eyes blazing. „A daring feat."

„Who is the ghost really?" There was no easy way to do this, not, when Tia Dalma knew so much and guessed even more. And therefore Susannah decided to cut to the point, for better or worse.

Tia Dalma stared at her, dark eyes burning. She did not answer, but glared at her, as if she had posed an insignificant question.

"Still you lack confidence", she said at long last, disapproving tone clear, and something in Susannah cringed at that. It had been one of the major reprimands that she had received frequently – the fact, that she was unsure of herself and her talents, and, true enough, unsure of her deductions. This time, however, she was not. And Tia Dalma's reaction pointed clearly to the fact, that obviously she had been right.

"Her crimes would not valid such an imprisonment, would they?" A carefully shot dagger, and it landed home, for Tia Dalma hissed in fury.

"How would you know?"

Susannah saw James tensing next to her, and she held her breath, torn between the tides. She knew his intervention would make things worse, but it was a dangerous thing she was doing, trying to make Tia Dalma angry to see what lay behind the mask.

"I only know what I saw", she replied, therefore. "This is why you sent me to her prison. And what I saw was who she was. And that she remembered the one that brought her into stories and song with love. Devotion maybe." Susannah shook her head. "The stories say, that she let him go, in the end. Did they not?"

"Impertinent girl", Tia Dalma snarled. "What do you know of it?" She took a quick step forward, her eyes blazing, but Susannah held her ground. She was right. Tia Dalma's reaction alone told her, that the fight against the ghost was way beyond the fight between a power trying to protect her people and the epitome of evil. This was personal. All, that remained, was to find out why. And whether she could still call this her fight afterwards.

"Nothing", she replied, truthfully. "You told me nothing. You sent me – sent us in there, without any hint towards what we should expect there."

"Because some things need to be seen first hand. Words…", she shook her head in rage. "Words are fickle. Weak. You need to see it. Sense it."

"And what I saw", Susannah retorted, "was sorrow. And love. And regret. Not all the makings of a monster."

"Liar!" She lurched at her, and Susannah took a step back, feeling, that she had taken this too far. But the matter was slowly gliding out of her hands. And, predictable as the sun rising in the morning, James stepped between the two women, shoving Susannah behind himself with sure movements. His hand on his weapon, he seemed to be ready to face whatever the witch was willing to cast in his direction with a bare blade.

She could see both vibrating with tension, and fear gripped her. She knew, that if Tia Dalma would decide, here, in her own sanctuary, there would be nothing, that would be able to stand against her, not even all the courage of the scourge of the Caribbean, as willing as he may be to cast it all into the ring to protect her.

"You still need her." His voice was calm, and she marvelled at how he did this, in the face of the rage of nature's power, but maybe that was what it meant to be a soldier. "You still need us. And it is no impossible thing she asked." Still, his voice was even, but with an unyielding quality to it. She glanced at him, as if measuring, and finally, to her complete and utter surprise, she saw something yielding in her eyes.

"You are water", she said, almost out of context. "Unseen depths to you, James Norrington." Slowly she nodded. "You shall have your answer, if that is what you wish."

"What did you learn in the cavern?"

The dragon was sleeping again, yet not too deeply, and Susannah knew, that a misstep would call it to full wakefulness again. There had not been time for her to thank James for his intervention, before Tia Dalma had bidden them inside to sit around her table again, but they had exchanged a quick glance and the words had passed unspoken between them.

How well they knew each other by now.

"The first triangulum", she forced herself back to the original point of discussion. "It was not in the cave. It was the cave, wasn't it?"

The witch nodded without any hint of a smile – telltale sign, that she was still cross and only barely bowing to the necessity of being civil. Susannah continued.

"The ghost once was – or still is – the sorceress Kirke, who imprisoned Odysseus on her island for a long time. She turned his crewmates into pigs, trying to keep the captain to herself. But she was ordered, by the gods, to let him go, and in the end she did and helped him on his quest by telling him how to pass the sirens."

Tia Dalma nodded.

"Yes, that indeed she is. And over the years, she has refined her techniques of ensnaring the mind of others. Years and years of practising, years and years of yearning and hating, have changed her. Now, her leeches are different. And more subtle."

Tia Dalma got up, pacing towards a shelf in the back of the cottage, her voice dark and smooth.

"There is a tale of the Italikans, an old legend talking about what befell Kirke after the Odyssee, what happened to her, when the great hero left."

She felt James' gaze lingering on her for a moment, but she could not afford to turn to him, could not afford to let Tia out of her focus of attention. This was never a wise course of action with her, and so she only smiled, softly, for just a fraction of a second, as much a sign as she could give him.

"When Odysseus left, he left her with child. Two sons, she bore from him, Telegonos and Agrios, twins, born of her trickery and his strength. But there was never any good to come out of her sorcery. There never was…"

She turned towards the table again, shells in her hand, casting them for a random pattern, that did not seem quite as coincidental as one might have thought on first glance.

"Odysseus went home…", her fingers loosely followed a path between the shells, ending up at one, "finding his wife and kingdom back in Ithaka. Leaving his son upon Aiaia with his mother." Another shell. From the frown upon James' face, the scattered items told him more than her.

"Both grew to be strong men, but one day, Telegonos yearned to learn, who his father was, like many young men do, whose origin is unknown. And thus, Kirke sent him to Odysseus to find him. Yet like I said, nothing good could come out of Kirke's doings. Telegonos was distracted by a storm, blewn off course, and, even though he landed at Ithaka, finally, he did not recognize it for what it was. He thought it to be another island, and since he and his crew were famished, they raided the fields, and the masters of the kingdom came to meet the invaders. And thus it was, that Odysseus was killed by his own son."

Rage stood in her eyes again, surpressed this time, but there was no denying, that Odysseus, the great sailor of Ithaka, was intrinsic to the core of this story, that a quarrel about him, about his legacy, about his memory, was, what gave this fight the personal note. Tia Dalma had known Odysseus, probably loved him as well. And she begrudged the ghost for being responsible for his death.

But who was she?

"But not enough with this atrocity." Tia's voice was sharp and full of suppressed fury. "He brought his father's body back to his mother, and brought the wife and son of the deceased along. And not even enough with that. For now, Kirke was faced with Telemachos, Odysseus' son, his mirror in behaviour and looks. And since she could not have the father, she took the son. And since the son was lesser than the father, he fully succumbed to her charms, fully succumbed to her trickery. His mother would not have had it, of course, but neither stood she against the might of Kirke. Her voice ensnared the woman, who had remained faithful for twenty years, and turned her valor into shame! Telegonos married Penelope, and since he had inherited the treacherous gifts of his mother, she fell for him completely, forgetting even the memory of her husband."

She let her words linger for a moment, fury, hurt vibrating through the room as if they carried a life of their own.

"But then", she continued, with a more quiet satisfaction, that almost returned her dignity, "but then, the gods would not have it any more. They intervened."

She closed her eyes, as if reliving a great relief.

"This was what she received her punishment for. The seduction of Telemachos and Penelope. She resisted, and Telegonos was killed by her resistance. But in the end, she was clad in irons, bound by a charm that would keep her in her place, and she had been kept in irons since then."

She gazed at her visitors, her gaze wandering over them in a mixture of hurt and scorn.

"Does this", she asked bitterly, "satisfy your curiosity?"

Slowly, Susannah nodded as the pieces were falling into place. The love. The bitterness. And one other thing was clear as well, as she now looked upon the assembly of shells, that had orchestrated Tia Dalma's tale.

"I understand", she said, and she could see in the eyes of the witch, that she knew the depths of Susannah's understanding. And it was equally frightening and exhilarating to know, that this knowledge for the first time gave her a hold on Tia.

As if she were starting to find her own ground in this mess.


	68. Author's note: In the middle of things

Usually I am not so much for author's notes in between chapters, but I kind of felt I owed you one.

This story has been going on for six years now, and I have been on and off writing for it, and I confess, that in between I seriously lost my enthusiasm for it.

Several reasons for this...

At first, to be honest, I have been a bit disappointed at the utter lack of responses to it (at some point in time, I decided to abandon the story if I ever have less reviews than chapters – but the german readers kind of saved the story review-wise so I couldn't really back off that conclusion, but it reduced of course my enthusiasm for translating, polishing and wrestling with words in a language that is not my own – and let me tell you, I'm picky, when it comes to words). This story took up a lot of planning, researching, time, effort, and I would – I confess – have appreciated a word now and then. Don't get me wrong. I'm not expecting thousands of reviews, and it also may be partially my fault, because I'm not so much into promoting my own story, but the response has been a little less then what I had hoped for. Considering, that the responses also kind of show the interest in the story, I was not sure if it's worth the effort.

Second – I suck at showdowns. I do. Big time. I have so many stories hanging in between things because I'm just incapable of writing a decent showdown. That alone again stalled the story, kind of. Even though I had decided I WANT to finish the story, I was experiencing a really serious writer's block and it just took some time until the story wanted to be continued.

Third, a lot has been going on in my life, especially the last three years... finishing my PHD, getting a job that is – quite frankly – a little tougher than I would have expected, certainly didn't pimp up my enthusiasm to put myself to the hard work of show-down writing in my sparse spare time.

Hence, the silence

That having said, I still bring good news.

The story is done.

I seriously kicked myself in the rear and managed to meet a motivation faery which helped me wrap things up.

I just uploaded the final chapter in german to the german website I posted the story on, and unless something was lost in between things, I should have all the english chapters as well.

I have decided to just upload all of them, even though some may not have been as polished, as I usually try to. I hope you will forgive me small mistakes or a few bad wordings.

In return, I'll upload as quickly as I can – if I have not lost a chapter in between (should be 11 remaining) they should all come now.

I hope some of you out there still remember me and this story.

And I hope you like the conclusion it has been spiralling to.

And if you want... I still appreciate a word ;-)

All the best

Spirit


	69. The path now clear before my eyes

**The path now clear before my eyes**

The night, they say, changes many thoughts. In the velvety darkness, cooler wind against the face, the heat of the day and the moment gone, all seemed different, rough edges smoothed, specters growing.

The caribbean night was peaceful, silence only broken by the rustling of the leaves, the crashing of waves against the soft shore right next to the village.

All were sleeping, demons and men alike. And even the whispers from the trees were drowsy.

Susannah glanced up to the stars, reveling in the quiet, that enfolded her senses like a warm blanket, the first time in days, in weeks, that she found something remotely resembling peace, and only now, that she was free of it, she felt how tense her senses were, how sore these parts of her mind, which she had only unconciously used before.

In these silent hours, Susannah felt, as if she were the only being still awake.

She was not, of course.

„Susannah..?"

Given the fact, that this careful word was the only sound emerging from the cottage, she concluded, that he must have watched her for quite some time. A strange habit of his, that she had remarked, but she did not feel disturbed by it. Quite to the contrary, to her own, soft surprise.

She nodded, a nonverbal acknowledgement of his words, and she heard the rustling of cloth as he apparently got up to step towards her.

She did not turn.

„You should sleep."

Veiled concern colored his voice. She smiled. There was a certain touching quality to the fact that he was worried about her.

„As should you", she replied softly. Evasion, and both of them knew it, but Susannah was not yet completely ready to share what was keeping her awake.

She was not sure, that she even understood.

But he knew her well, too well these days, and something between day and night had changed him. Maybe, she thought with a flash of intuition, changed him back.

He had found a new resolve, but a softer one than the one that he had shown in Port Royal, yet he was as unyielding as ever, and maybe there was her – or even their – salvation in it.

„Now it is you", he said, matter-of-factly, „who is evading."

He was right of course. She half turned, so that she could see him from the corner of her eyes, face lit by the moonlight. He had his hands clasped behind his back, in a gesture that seemed intrinsic to him, and looked every inch the stiff officer that she had known from afar in Port Royal.

Save for his eyes…

„Sleep does not come easily these days", she answered, a trifle sadly, and he nodded. „I have been… considering things."

He stepped up to her, standing next to her, leaning against the frame, looking out into the void.

„Would you care to share your thoughts?"

He did not look at her, but the offer was clear. They still were so new to this game. Susannah sighed.

„I have been thinking", she replied, „about what we learned of Tia Dalma."

„Enlighten me, Susannah…", he replied, his voice tingled not with annoyance, but with a certain impatience. „Was it worth placing yourself in that kind of danger?"

Susannah looked up to him, and his features were tense, as he stared out towards the sea. It was difficult to judge, what he was thinking, and while she still pondered this – and anwering him became a smaller priority – he turned back to her, watching her with unfanthomable eyes. „I was worried", he precised, much more softly, and Susannah felt relieved.

„Yes", she remembered his question. „Yes. I think, it was worth it."

His face, bathed in shadow, remained tilted towards her, and even though she could not see it, she felt the questioning gaze.

She knew him well, by now.

„I know who she is", she therefore replied. „Tia Dalma." And, since he did not reply to it, she continued, thoughtfully. „Odysseus was loved by many, James. By his wife, by Kirke, and…"

„Calypso." James placed a hand against his forehead, as if recieving a revelation. „Of course."

„After Odysseus left Kirke", Susannah continued, softly, „he fell into the hands of Calypso, who was a nymph, and the daughter of Atlas, who bears the world on his shoulders. Calypso loved him, and kept him on her island for seven years. But like with Kirke, the gods commanded her to let him go."

„So this is about jealousy?" Incredulously, he shook his head. „A grudge, carried over two thousand years?"

„Jealousy is a powerful thing, James", Susannah, said, softly, and in the moment she said it, she realized the truth of it. How all of them were governed by it…

Jealousy it was, among other things, that had brought James Norrington to Tortuga.

And jealousy, god help her, jealousy it was, that made her dread the moment, when Jack would return to Tia Dalma, bringing with him the formidable Elizabeth Swann…

„Yes", he said, and there was a foreign tightness in his voice that told her, that his thoughts were walking along the same lines. How much she would have loved to know his mind in this instant…

Silence settled. Susannah felt scared and demure, marvelling at the fact, that the man beside her had, somehow, become more important to her than she would have imagined.

A light in the dark edges of her mind.

And god knew, there were many.

„Where does this lead us?"

For a moment, she did not know, what he was talking about, but then she remembered, that she had taught him about Tia Dalma. About Calypso, she corrected herself.

„We have power over her", she replied softly. „For the first time, we might have power over her. Such a knowledge… about something, that is intrinsic to her…" She smiled. „Names are powerful charms, James, but love is a magic, that is even stronger. And of her, we have both…"

He nodded, looking out to the sea again. His arms were crossed before his chest in a gesture of defense, and his lips thinned as he pressed them together.

„The same goes for us, doesn't it?"

Her heart skipped a beat, in shock at this veiled statement, that, on second glance, told enough to take her breath away. Admittance. Insecurity. Fear.

Slowly, she got to her feet, watching him, his face now in better view. He looked to the floor, avoiding her gaze, possibly deliberately, the lines around his mouth in sharp relief in the moonlight.

Carefully, she bowed towards him, placing her bare fingers under his chin. She was rarely wearing gloves these days, as if Tia Dalma's tutelage had brought greater control of what attacked her senses. He was meeting her gaze, but barely.

„Regrets?", she asked softly fearing his answer.

He took a deep breath, blinking as an excuse for being relieved of her gaze for an instant.

„Many", he replied, and her heart sank, but he shook his head and brought up a hand, carefully tracing her features, lingering on the cheekbone. „But not this." He was sincere, and her heart stopped for a moment as he bowed, for another kiss, a moment of warmth, reassurance, magic.

Her eyes drifted shut and remained so, long after he had withdrawn again, senses overwhelmed. When finally, she opened them again, her breath going flatly, she caugth an expression on his face, that he had most definitely not wanted her to see, a mixture of devotion, enchantment and pain that was difficult to place but frightening to behold.

A veil dropped soon enough, and James Norrington was master of his senses once more, the expression gone from his eyes, but his voice was rough when he finally spoke.

„And still, we follow this path…?" It was only half of a question, and she hoped, that he had returned to their original conversation, the nature of Tia Dalma's motives.

„If it was the gods", she replied, softly, „who imprisoned Kirke, then they did so with Calypso's help. For better or worse… she may be the lesser of two evils."

He shook his head softly.

„Again, two ways into hell... How will this end, Susannah?"

The answer was easy.

„In fire", she whispered, placing a careful hand on his arm. „The question is, how will we emerge?" She felt his questioning look burning into her face, and she continued, in a dreamy manner, that came to her so naturally, naturally as the words, as if the charlatan had become part of herself, or as if she were speaking of more inherent truths.

„We stand between the worlds, James.

Between what is real, and what is magic. Between gods and men. Touched by sorcery, but rooted in reality. It may well be, that elements will tear us apart."

„No." He shook his head. „I have not succumbed to undead pirates, and neither will I succumb to this. And neither will you."

She smiled, as a wave of warmth rushed over her. And, standing here, amidst the calm, she could almost believe it.

* * *

„Susannah? Oh my goodness! Susannah!"

He could see her from the window, half hidden behind the curtains. Like a ghost of another life, a specter coming back to haunt his days. Golden hair, angled face, eyes, as wide as the dreams they inspired. His heart missed a beat at the sight of this particular phantom, only to continue beating in rapid succession afterwards.

In her usual open friendliness, Elizabeth Swann rushed towards the seamstress, enfolding her in her arms. She seemed genuinely overjoyed. Her smile was captivating.

Did she even notice, he wondered, the stiffness in Susannah's shoulders?

„Susannah…" Jack Sparrow, coming in second, made a face, squinting at the seeress. „Nice." With a flash of intuition, James remembered, that the pirate had known her as Lucilla only, and probably had been unaware of the connection between Elizabeth and Susannah.

James, however, remembered painfully. Lurching forward at her. The governor's daughter, standing before him, a lioness defending her young.

He barely remembered the presence of Susannah in that scene, the impact of Elizabeth's scorn had been so severe. He could only dimly remember these frantic days. Yet, memories were mingled with regret.

Why on earth would she have to come back, now, that he had found something he would not have thought possible – a breath withheld in time, a small measure of peace amidst the storm?

„Susannah… how…?" Elizabeth shook her head again, and Will Turner, who had stood back during the women's exchange, stepped forward as well, his smile towards the seeress warm.

„It is a very long story", he heard the seamstress's quiet voice, and saw her shrug, and he wondered, whether her face was more open than her posture, that spoke of wariness. Maybe, he realized, he was not the only one feeling uncomfortable at being reminded about things long past.

Will watched the young woman with a delicate concern, that was intrinsic to him, a frown plastered on his face. The connection between them was obvious – and explicable, considering, that while Will had been the blacksmith's apprentice, Susannah had worked for her mother as a tailor, and the common social standing and upbringing would have brought them closer together. But still, James envied him for the ease, with which he now enfolded Susannah in his arms as well, the warmth despite the distance between the two tangible.

„I am glad that you are well", William said, and James saw her shoulders relaxing slightly.

What was it with that boy that put people at ease around him? For a brief moment, he experienced a mixture of jealousy and envy, and it took an almost inhuman effort to quench it. He had no claim over Susannah. Much less claim, that he had ever had over Elizabeth. And yet, he would have longed for a single instant of ease, as Will and Elizabeth seemed to produce so effortlessly.

Maybe, he realized, his stomach turning violently at the thought, it was him, who prevented this. Certainly it was.

All of them, they were what life had made them.

„Don't you want to greet them?"

He flinched at Tia Dalma's words from behind him, the sudden, unwanted movement all the more highlighting the tension in his body. For a moment, he thought of snapping at her, but then thought better of it. He had no right to extract himself from this situation. It was indignified and certainly not like him.

„One thing at a time", he replied, his voice even, a thin smile on his lips. And then, with a short bow in the direction of the witch woman, he exited the cottage to face his demons.

She almost would not have recognized him. The fact nonewithstanding, that she had known from Jack that he was here, the figure appearing in the door to the cottage had nothing to do with the James Norrington she had known in her time.

The lines in his face had hardened, and in his eyes, she saw a bitterness, that had not even been there, when she had rejected him, at the top of Fort Charles, a lifetime ago, when everything still seemed easy.

Him being here showed clearly, that he had not sided with Crystabella, who, working through her father, seemed to hold Port Royal firmly in her hand by now. Not that she would have thought him to be compromised easily, but by seeing him it was obvious, that he had not escaped unscathen from whatever had happened.

She was glad at seeing him – alive, if obviously not unharmed – and tried to breach the barrier between them with a smile.

„James!"

She took a quick step towards him to enfold him in a short embrace. He did not respond, just standing stiff, but just before she had lost his face out of sight, she had caught up a look of utter surprise at this gesture, and remembered, how much back in Port Royal, formality had dictated their steps.

But here, the situation was totally different, and he was just a friendly face, a trusted face, among those, whom she would not trust.

She withdrew after only a moment, and he avoided her eyes, after scanning quickly over her form, as if to ensure that she was unharmed.

„I am glad to find you in good health", he said, stiff formality completely in place. She nodded.

„As well, as can be expected, James."

She could see, that he felt uneasy with her adressing him this informally, but he never got as far as any protest, before a dark-skinned woman, emerging, from the cottage, drew their attention with unignorable presence. Something was radiating from her eyes, that demanded attention – and more – and Elizabeth felt the pull of her power, for the lack of a better word of it.

„Welcome", she said, „all of you, in your own way." And then, before turning around to step back into the cottage, one last word. „Come."

* * *

Of all the war councils, that James Norrington had been part in throughout his life – and there had been quite many, to be frank – this was by far the strangest and most unusual. The company assembled as extraordinary, a pirate captain, the daughter of the Port Royal governor, a blacksmith, a navy officer, an ancient goddess – or whatever Calypso was supposed to be called – a human seeress, a spanish noblewoman and a spanish navy captain, who had acknowledged Norrington's presence with a tiny nod, that James estimated he had reserved for enemies that he found a certain respect for.

Their summary was brief. Much of the knowledge they had gathered between themselves was already known to all, with the exception of William, Elizabeth and Capitano Castellano, who had not known anything yet about the metaphysical implications of the fact, that Crystabella Halvery of Port Royal was not quite, what it seemed.

Yet, Tia Dalma was remarkably closed concerning that fact, feeding them the same story that she had told James and Susannah earlier, of the ghost of old times, a prison built, a seal broken.

Of course, neither of them asked any further. They were alike in this, focussed on the goal, and he could understand them well.

It was only Susannah, who never stopped asking.

But the seeress supported Tia Dalma in this, sending James a warning glance, of which he understood, that she thought that Will and Elizabeth need not know the exact details of the nature of Port Royal's resident ghost.

How alike of her mentor Susannah had become, keeping the same tight reign on information as she had.

Yet, soon the conversation turned to more material things.

„There are three steps to victory", Tia Dalma finally explained.

„One battle will be fought by force of arms, with cannons and fire, with ships and blades. And one of them will be fought on different paths, walking in dreams, walking in darkness." The witch smiled. „But before this, something else has to be done. And I will need all of you for it."

* * *

He was coming to her. Leonora bit back a smile that crept onto her features. How everything was working out nicely…

The small village on the coast was slowly becoming crowded with guests, but the tribe did not seem to be disturbed by it. It was, on the whole, a very strange image, with the natives, following their own paths, and the guests, who had been given several cottages, and whose life and presence went almost as if unnoticed. The only people acknowledging their presence – and caring for them, was the old schaman Kuluk-Hye, and the woman Lua-Phey, who seemed to be his pupil.

Yet there was also time and opportunity for solitude – or relative solitude, given the fact, that Jack Sparrow was currently, very purposefully, staggering towards her.

„A beauty in the moonlight, eh?" he slurred, stepping closer. Leonora let her gaze wander over him.

He was a strange bird, but there was something to it, that unmistakeably called out to her. He was a scoundrel, a man following his own whims, and his own rules, and while, deep down, there was hidden something that Elizabeth would have called a ‚good heart', it was hidden under layers and layers of a playfulness, that peaked Leonora's interest – and her own sense of a challenge.

He was, on the whole, a very interesting man.

„A compliment never comes without a price, does it, Jack Sparrow?"

Gold teeth were glinting in the dark light as he grinned. He cocked his head to a side, seemingly to get a better look. Then, after a moment, he shook his head, uttering a sigh.

„So much misinterpreted am I. It is just friendly concern, you know? I am capable of that."

Leonora smirked.

„Of course."

Silence settled between them. Something was on Jack Sparrows mind, and Leonora was at loss at what it would be. He was very difficult to read sometimes.

Very interesting.

„Castellano, eh", he finally breached the silence between them. „So you're going with him?"

Leonora bit back a smile. So this had been irking him. Her heart quickened, just for a moment, in a reaction, that was a bit too strong for her own taste. But then, this game had long since become two-sided.

„Apparently", she replied, turning towards him. He was watching her, eyes pitch black in the near darkness of the night. Looking into them called a familiar surge in her stomach back to life, but she fought down the notion and smiled. „Why?"

„Ah, just plain interest. Concern, you see? I would so hate to have gone out of my way to rescue you, just to see you in the filthy hands of some… say… untrustworthy scoundrel." He made a face, exaggerated, and Leonora raised a brow.

„Is that so?"

Jack looked offended.

„You insult me, Miss Halvery. As the incomparable Miss Swann and her equally likeable fiance never fail to emphasize, I do have a splendid reputation of vastly daring deeds, all for the good of the world. Alas, I am underestimated, as always…" He sighed in exasperation. „As they say, the prophet is never valued on his own ground, but such is my fate… Yet, I am willing to bear it, for the sake of the free horizon and the reward of the Lord."

„And in addition to all that", Leonora replied, her voice dry, „you're almost made of sugar."

Jack grinned broadly, taking a step towards her.

„Care for a bite?"

„A bite…"

She slowly took a step towards him, so that they were almost touching. She was tall, almost as tall as he, and thus she was able to look him in the eye, even in this close proximity. There was a slight smile around his lips, somewhere between arrogance and curiosity, carefully watching her every move.

She halted.

„Lacking guts?"

He was taunting her, deliberately, and she knew it, and he knew, that she knew it. It was working, none the less. And thus, Leonora let herself drift closer, until her shirt was touching his jacket, and closer still, until the rustling of leaves and the crashing of waves faded away, and there was only him, for a moment.

And then, like opposites attracting, the distance was covered, no matter by whom, and hot lava exploded behind her eyes, dripping down into her arms, pooling in her stomach, chasing away all rational thought with a familiar, and ever new frenzy.

Regaining her wit was impossible. The situation was spiralling out of control, and the fire that she had toyed with threatened to burn her whole. Only dimly, she realized, that he was probably caught in the same net – the only good thing about the whole situation.

Collecting all her resolve, she extracted herself from him, her body protesting violently, her breath not even remotely even, despite her best efforts.

She slapped his face, not with all her might, but strong, still. A gesture of rebellion, and the only way to extract herself from this situation that she could think of, that did not involve losing her face.

She wirled around and stormed off in the darkness, and thus, she did not see the grin spreading on Jack Sparrow's face.

„That", he concluded, „was definitely worth it."


	70. Splinters

**Splinters**

They were like the migrant birds. Sent to different places, following different messages, which, all together, would probably at the end of the day give the picture, that Tia Dalma was planning to paint.

When she saw the ships vanishing, wooden pictures first, then only small spots on the ever present sea, she would have prayed for their safety and the success of their dealings, if there still had been a god that she would have dared to ask.

This was the way of the world. Chicks became fledged and left the nest, a circle of life, turning again and again.

If the chicks failed, the nest, one day, would fall.

But that she and not told them, them, that she sent out to sea to get what she needed to break Kirke's hold over Port Royal. Some she had not told, because this knowledge would also have meant power over her, some, because the fine senses of Calypso told her already too clearly, that the ice they were walkind on was much too thin.

Only Susannah, clever, silent Susannah, who watched the ships leaving as well, but whose gaze did not lie on the Black Pearl or the Rosa, but on Tia Dalma, only Susannah suspected.

The girl was becoming like her much too quickly.

* * *

„It looks as if nothing had changed…"

There was wonder to James Norrington's voice, as he squinted at the battlements, that had outlined his world for what felt a lifetime. The young woman beside him, hair pulled back tightly in a braid, nodded, a grim expression on her face.

„Grizzly, isn't it?"

He agreed fully. Torches up on the battlements marked the passages of soldiers, as did the small moving spots down in the port.

Port Royal was ever watchful.

Like fireflies, the few citizens awake sputtered the velvety darkness of the carribbean night. There was no moon, no stars, and James was grateful for even this small grace.

All was silent, but for the quiet splashing of rowing. James and Will had taken turns in advancing the small boat, while the small ship, that had already brought him to the twin islands faithfully, was anchored a bay away, hidden from sight.

„Disquieting, I would call it", James replied, his mouth thinning as he pressed his lips together. „Which should inspire us to caution." A warning look, to Elizabeth, then to Will. But while the blacksmith only glowered back, a tiny smile crept on Elizabeth's features.

„Why, Commodore… attempting at stealth?"

He gazed over at her, his eyes narrow.

"There is nothing to be gained in madness", he replied coolly. "And against superior forces, an open attack would be nothing else. And I hardly think, this is the time for jest."

His voice was frigid and detached, hands clenched on the rail, knuckles going white. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, and he was every inch the tense officer readying for battle.

Elizabeth snorted in disgust.

"Oh, yes, I am sorry. I forgot." She turned her back to him, shaking her head. "Glad to see you're still same old James."

She turned her back to him, gazing darkly towards the fort.

William Turner shook his head softly. He was not sure what made him see more clearly than either James or Elizabeth, what was hanging in the air right now, but maybe, it was the fact, that despite having lived in Port Royal for so long, he had left behind less than either of the others. His home was Elizabeth.

Yet, the occupation of Port Royal was probably not the only thing weighing heavily on Norrington's mind. Will considered for a moment, then decided to speak up.

"She will be fine. I'm sure." Hollow reassurance, but everything he could do for the moment.

Norrington's head whipped around to the young man, who was currently rowing, and of all the things Will had estimated as a reaction from the Commodore, a curt nod of thanks was the last thing he had expected.

Yet soon the man's gaze went back to the fort, watching the steps of the ever careful soldiers, while he tried to keep his thoughts from straying to the island, where Susannah was – or probably even was not any more.

Given the crowd assembled, his own shyness in this part and Susannah's nature, which was not helping either in this respect, he had not even gotten a chance to truly say goodbye.

* * *

"Remind me…." For a moment, Susannah considered, how James would have phrased this question, with just the right hinge of annoyance and bite, yet matter-of-factly and strictly logical. But she found herself incapable of producing the same strength in demeanor, and so her words were only a feeble shadow of the original that she tried to copy. "… remind me, why it is me, who is doing this. And not you."

Tia Dalma, torn from her trail of thought – not something she usually took easily – turned to Susannah, and the young seamstress was surprised to perceive a certain sadness in Calypso's eyes.

"Because, young Susannah, I can not. Believe me…", and her gaze was torn back to the sea that was crashing against the sand, a dark night with clouds overhead. "… I would give much to go on the journey you are about to take."

That was probably more honest than anything Susannah had ever gotten from her, and thus, the seamstress frowned.

"Why?"

"It would be unwise for me", Tia Dalma replied, "to leave the island."

"Why?" Susannah asked again, and this time, the woman frowned.

"It would be unwise as well if you asked."

So, some secrets still were kept. But Susannah, for once, believed the seeress. Now, all she needed was the faith in her own abilities, and in the fact, that the nymph daughters magic would work on her.

"Why do we start from here?" she asked. "Would it not be wiser to just go in the general area, and then start?"

"It is of no difference", Tia Dalma replied. "You will be swift, very swift. And I think, we both prefer to speak the charm together."

Susannah nodded. That, at least, was true. She only had a vague idea on the spell they were going to weave, and was doubtful, that she would have been able to do it on her own. There were depths to the art that Calypso knew, that were miles beyond her grasp, and even though she had learned now, that a certain power lay in objects and knowledge, in the end, it was always gift and skill which would decide, and in both aspects, she was so much inferior to Tia.

"How long until we start?"

"Soon", Tia Dalma answered, thoughtfully grazing her fingers through the crab shells in her hand. "Very soon."

* * *

"I still think, this is a very bad idea."

Jack turned to his first mate ill-temperedly. As always, Gibbs had his gaze on the dark side of things, and this was something, that Jack could not use at the moment. His own thoughts were dark enough.

"And once more, dear friend", he replied tensely, "you set me aback by your astounding capability to look on the bright side of life. Yet I have come to expect that from you, alas." Jack Sparrow sighed in exasperation. "Yet, if you would not look so much towards the dark, perhaps I would not feel the need to contradict you, which would not force me to pure optimism, which again might result in me feeling bad at that moment, so maybe I should be grateful, shouldn't I?`"

Gibbs blinked, confused as often by Jacks ramblings, and then shrugged. "I suppose so."

"Ah, there you see…" Jack turned away from him with grand gesture. They were standing at the entrance of a Tortuga tavern, the 'Rolling barrel', a pub that Jack was very familiar with, and he had found it to be a source of valuable and – relatively – reliable information. At least for those, who knew to separate the true from the nonsense. Which probably rendered the first statement useless. Ah well.

"And you think, that this is the place to look?"

Jack sighed.

"My good and precious Mister Gibbs. Tortuga is always the place to look. Even if you don't know what we are looking for. But since there are so many things to look at here, you are bound to find something, which is helping."

"So, what are we looking for, after all?"

Jack had arrived with them after having talked to Tia Dalma, who had called upon Jack and Norrington, Will, Elizabeth, Susannah, Castellano and Leonora to tell them of whatever she had plotted. He had been closed up as always about their goals, but now that they were in Tortuga, he might be more accessible than before.

"I am looking…", he mused, looking around, "for old friends. Who have something that I want."

"Ah, now I know!" Gibbs eyed Jack, dissatisfaction bright in his eyes.

"Let me tell you a story", Jack elaborated. "There once was a ship, a ship with black sails. Its captain, a vile and wordbreaking creature, who crawled the earth and insulted the seas by his pure existence, was said to have raided a certain, very beautiful town. There, one of his minions took a token, hardly worth mentioning, yet precious to some." He smiled. "This is what we are after."

"Hold on." Gibbs frowned. "Haven't all members of the Black Pearl crew been brought to Port Royal and hanged by Norrington?"

Jack shook his head.

"Almost all of them, Gibbs. Almost. Only to most resourceful ones, jewels of their kind, escaped, and still stroll among is."

* * *

"I still think you shouldn't have done it."

"Do you now?"

The older of the two looked up, gazing between lank strands of hair, that were hanging into his face. He gave a convincing display of a man annoyed. "And why should I care?"

"Because it is your soul as well, which is at stake." The first one, lanky, slender, one eye following his opponent with surprising awareness, the other remaining fixed and staring. "We have been dead, remember? And god probably is still angry at us for that… coin thing, you know? And the devil might be after us because we escaped from him."

"Of course."

Pintel groaned, rolling his eyes.

"And how would we have bought for a place to stay, then? Not to speak of the food you've had?"

"We could just have asked for it"; Ragetti proposed, as if such things in Tortuga meant no more than a good intention. "People would have helped us."

"People", Pintel précised, "would have thrown us in the gutter and let us bleed empty, if presented with the chance."

"But still, our souls would be in shape."

"Ah, such a gruesome talk."

A third voice intruded, aloof, friendly, jovial, and both turned, to find a very comfortable-looking Captain Jack Sparrow leaning in the doorframe.

"Jack!", two voices shouted out in unison, and the exclamation was not a completely untainted one. Pintel and Ragetti had been part of first Jacks, then Barbossa's crew – which technically meant, that they had played a role, if a minor one, in a mutiny against Jack. It was hard to tell, how this would affect the attitude of the pirate captains towards his former comrades.

It was Ragetti, who found his voice first.

"Nice to see you", he said, forcing a smile, that looked fake at best. "How have you been?"

"Fine, gentlemen", Jack replied, aloof, "but no thanks to you."

"Listen…", Pintel started, but the pirate captain cut him off with a quick wave of his hand.

"Oh, come on my friends. Don't embarrass me or yourselves with the false claims of an equally false modesty, which would all force us to behave civil towards each other, god forbid, and this would spoil so much of the fun, when there are other ways, so much better ways of achieving – if not what you want, then what I want – which is, considering the circumstances, maybe also what you want."

The two pirates exchanged a look of pure confusion. But quite possibly this was, what Jack had anticipated. He continued, seemingly nonplussed.

"Which is why we here reach the point, where what I want is what you want, and this will ultimately result in you giving me what I want because it will have become what you want as well by the time that we reach the point of knowing what we all want."

Again, he was faced with blank looks, as both pirates tried to grasp his meaning.

"You're not making sense", Ragetti tried a valiant attempt at honesty, which was acknowledged by Jack with a grin.

"I will, eventually." He took a step towards them, thus allowing Gibbs to enter the room as well. "So, let me think…" He tapped his lips with his digit thoughtfully. "There was that one, fateful night…" He grinned. "Back in good old Port Royal. Where you… took something."

"Yeah", Pintel agreed. "Missy Swann."

"True enough", Jack replied, taking another step towards them. "But this is not what I was thinking about. You raided a house. Close to the shore. Did a good job of it, as far as I was told. And there you found a small item, didn't you?"

Pintel shook his head.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Of course you do!" Ragetti intercepted, outraged. "He's talking about that three faced thing." He turned to Jack, adding by way of explanation, "he broke it."

Jack rolled his eyes.

"I know. What I don't know is where you two experts put it after breaking it."

"The captain had the same thing", Ragetti added, incoherently, gaining himself a shove from his counterpart. "Barbossa", he corrected himself. "Barbossa had one like these. So we figured, that it was of quite some value."

Jack glared at them darkly.

"Barbossa had none of these", he growled, only to then wave off-handedly. "But that's beside the point. What I really want to know is where you have got it."

"We hid it", Ragetti said, about the same time that Pintel added, "what do we get for this?"

"Let me think…" Jack began pacing, as if considering his words. "You played a certain part in a mutiny against me… dragged me through hell and back some months ago, almost cost me ship and life, so, I would say, you get… not killed?"

"But we were condemned then", Ragetti intercepted. "Now we're respectable", and, after a quick exchange of gazes with Pintel, "Sort of."

The smaller of the two nodded affirmative.

"And a respectable man", Jack took up the thread effortlessly, "would not try and haggle with a man trying to save not only his skin, but the world as it is, and just give what he came and asked for."

"He's got a point"; Ragetti mused. Pintel shook his head.

"You've been in the sun for way too long, pal",he diagnosed. "No way in hell you're telling him this."

"This is what I'm saying, you see? I have been condemned for long enough. I don't much care to have this for eternity. And since we've come here I have it with me anyway."

"You have what?" Pintel shook his head in exasperation.

"It's pretty", Ragetti excused himself, and, for demonstration of the truthfulness of his statement, he pulled out of his pocket the shreds of a triangulum, glass faces half broken, the metal rim rusty and bereft of much of its glory. "Not so much to look at", he concluded, now examining it as if seeing it for the first time. "Now that I see it…"

Jack grinned, broadly.

"Now we're talking."

* * *

The entrance hall was dark and empty.

James Norrington hesitated and took a look around at the schemes in the darkness.

The windows were covered with hangings, a vase was standing next to the door, and, in the middle of the room, the looming shadow of the staircase led into the next story of the building.

It had been folly, he decided, now that he stood there again, a changed man, a different man, to purchase this house, in a fool's hope, that one day, Elizabeth Swann would grace these halls with her presence. It was too big, too empty, reprimanding him silently for his illusions.

There were no servants staying overnight, he had never deemed this necessary, and so the place was deserted, uninhabited, a ruin of a life that nobody mourned. He felt a shiver.

They had silently crept through the sleeping streets of Port Royal, combining the knowledge of the common smith, who had spent his life in this town with that of the rogue governor's daughter, who had made a sport of slipping through dark and quiet places in escape of whoever had been the unfortunate person to supervise her that day, and the knowledge of the man, who had practically rebuilt the town, to find their way through the alleys unnoticed.

As far as they could tell, they had been successful.

Yet, it was a very uncomfortable feeling to thus stumble upon a part of one's life, that one had abandoned – not willingly, but abandoned – and that felt like an existence, that he did not merit.

He stepped up the stairs, walking between the tokens of his past, and into the study, that obviously had been cleaned up after him having left it in utter ruins. He felt touched at the thought of Jenkins, his manservant, an elderly man of fifty, who had probably cleaned up this place, never knowing whether its owner would come back some day.

Unfortunately, this also meant, that he had no idea where to look for the token he had come for.

After a moment's hesitation, he turned around to Elizabeth and Will.

"And you are still adamant about going alone?"

"Don't patronize me, James", the governor's daughter replied, angrily. "I know what I am doing."

"I will not claim to truly understand any of what is going on here", Will Turner replied in a much more conciliatory tone, "but from all that I can gather, what Tia Dalma said makes sense. And this means, that it would probably not be wise for you to go to close to that… spirit. Both Elizabeth and I have had nothing to do with this in the past. I hate to say this, but alongside with Jack, Susannah and Tia Dalma, you may be at the heart of this all, and she might sense it."

James did not like what he was hearing, but neither was it new to him, nor deniable by any argument he could conceive. Tia Dalma had been very explicit about this, and only by the vaguest of arguments, she had even allowed for him to go to Port Royal. He would have loved to deny the faint buzzing he felt, a sense of resonance, that told him, as Susannah would have probably said, of her proximity.

A part of him screamed to protect Elizabeth, but another part, the more sensible one, told him, that it was pure madness, and that, in addition to that, she was with her fiancé, who had a lot more right in protecting her than he had.

While all the while somewhere in the darkness, Susannah was following darkened paths.

He nodded, numbly.

"You are right, William." And then, in repetition of a very old pain, "the very best of luck to you both…"

* * *

"An ancient power mine to command"

The blackened water sipped at the seam of Susannah's dress, as she stepped into the water, Tia Dalma's hands on her shoulders, her voice in her ears.

The seamstress was carrying a veil of seaweed, interwoven with shells, the fabric cool and wet on her fingers. Power was resonating through it, resonating through her.

"Sending you…."

Susannah took a deep breath and did as she had been instructed, dragged the veil over her face, over her body. The smell of salt and sea engulfed her, and only dimly, she heard Tia Dalma's last words.

"… into the abyss."

And then, everything changed. Her vision narrowed down, changing her field of observation to something… odd. As if compensating for that, sounds became more prominent, travelling to her from all the distances, sounds of water, whispers… echoes.

There was water all around her, and a part of her remembered what she was here for, with the same, instinctive knowledge that told her how to walk, and she moved, awkwardly, slowly, at first, but gaining.

She followed a silvery path that only the strangest of her senses could perceive.

Tia Dalma watched, as the large (rochen) vanished into deeper water.

Now, all that remained, was prayer.


	71. And lead me not into temptation

**And lead me not into temptation**

"The jewel of Spain in the Caribbean." It was hard to say – even for Leonora, who excelled at reading others, if there was any sarcasm in Fernando Castellano's voice as they stepped onto the market pace of Santo Domingo, hustling and bustling even at this late hour. A group of musicians were standing at one corner, playing a jolly tune, surrounded by a bunch of people, that made it impossible to spot the source of the melodie. A tavern had opened its doors and put out some benches onto the square, where people were sitting, merchants, prospectors fallen lucky, some soldiers and sailors.

Leonora smiled. This place, contrary to, for example the London she was used to, was very, very much alive, and something in her blood responded to a memory that she could have never had.

"An interesting place", she replied, as she joined Castellano, her hand on his arm, every inch captain and lady, a striking image in the fading light. The Captain smiled, placed his hand on hers for an instant and shot her a quick glance.

"Such it is", he replied, leading her towards a table of the outdoor tavern, where a sturdy man with close-cropped black hair and beard sat and rose, as he recognized them, to greet them with a smile.

"Fernando." The welcome was cordial, on both sides, and Castellano, carefully letting go of Leonora, grasped both hands of the man in a friendly gesture.

"Miss Halvery", Castellano switched back to fluent English when before, they had been talking in Spanish with ease, "meet Captain Jeffrey Blackbird, a trusted companion of ours for many battles.

Leonora searched her memory for information on the man, but found none. For all intents and purposes, he was an unknown quality for her, and as such she greeted him, friendly, calling on the readiness of her smile, but with underlying wariness.

"It is my pleasure", she replied, therefore, and allowed herself to be led to the table Blackbird had been sitting at. Minutes later, she was sitting in front of a glass of surprisingly good Spanish wine, listening to the idle chatter that Castellano and Blackbird exchanged.

They had obviously known each other for quite long and were familiar enough to exchange polite pleasantries without even approaching the heart of any matter, that would have told her what exactly the nature of the relationship between the two men was.

Not, that it was so difficult to guess. Castellano had travelled to the Caribbean with vast privileges and from the information, that he had gained, he must have had access to a net of local allies, of sort.

How amusing it was, that one of them should be British.

"It is nice to chat with you as always", Blackbird finally turned to other matters, having exhausted the weather, the state of local politics, Santo Domingo gossip and the advances of the colonisation of the Northern American west, "and you make an especially nice company Miss Halvery", she nodded in acknowledgement. "Yet, I can hardly imagine, that this is why you were so insistent upon meeting me here."

Castellano smiled, as if caught in the act.

"You know me too well, Jeffrey", he replied. "But yes, in the end, chatter is not why we came. I need your help. In fact, I need your ship."

He could go from playful diversion to utter bluntness in the twinkling of an eye. Leonora watched his dark eyes, the posture, that had gone from relaxed to underlying tension. It was in fact strange, that he took such a personal interest in the matter of Port Royal. But whatever it was, he deemed to be able to draw an advantage from this.

"My ship. Did you stumble upon gold without me hearing about it?" Blackbird raised both eyebrows. "Somehow, this does not sound all to calming. "

A mercenary then. Under Spanish pay.

Castellano sighed.

"Calming, in fact, has nothing to do with this, Jeff. Quite the opposite, to be precise."

He leaned back, folding his hands before him. "To be blunt, I am planning to walk into a battle, and I would feel better in doing so, if I had more firepower at my disposal than I have now."

Blackbird frowned and leaned back.

"Go on", he offered, interlacing his fingers. "Where are you going?"

Castellano took a sip of wine, apparently collecting his thoughts.

"There are several paths that we can tread dealing with this story", he admitted, "and I would have you choose your own way. I can – if you want me to – tell you what I know of where we are going – or I can tell you what you need to know. Your choice."

Blackbird grinned broadly.

"Worried about my sanity?"

"Let us just say", Castellano replied smoothly, "that I have, at times, come to appreciate the bliss of ignorance."

Blackbird grinned, leaning back in a casual gesture.

"We go back a long way, Fernando", he replied, by way of answering, and apparently, this was a reply of some sort, that Leonora did not understand, for Castellano smiled, and continued to speak.

"As insane as this may sound to you, but we are to attack Port Royal, and we are going to do it soon."

"So the rumors are true", Blackbird concluded, interested at least. "That Norrington is gone."

"They are true", Castellano confirmed, "and yet, not as you may think. For the lack of a better expression – Port Royal is not what it used to be. It has fallen into decay, and the sickness, that has it rotting from within, is not without threat to us as well."

Blackbird frowned.

"Which means, that we are – sort of – helping the british regain their colony, aren't we?"

Castellano spread out his hand in a gesture jovial friendliness.

"All in the name of charity. And I am sure, we will not go unpaid."

"That much can be assured", Leonora replied, drily. She had seen enough of both Norrington and Elizabeth Swann to be able to count on their honor, and this thought opened up a whole new array of possibilities, indeed.

It was the first time that she had spoken since they had met Blackbird, who had not even asked who she was – probably as a favour to Castellano, but now, apparently, she had arisen his curiosity. There was no real reason to beat around the bush.

"Leonora Halvery", she therefore introduced herself. Blackbird did his best to smile.

"Charmed." He lacked the splendour and ease of Castellano, so much was sure. And he had no idea who she was.

All the better, she decided and flashed an answering smile. It was up to Castellano where this conversation was going, and apparently the spanish captain knew his responsibility well enough to step in once more.

"Without going too much into detail", he began, "there is something about this whole story that is peculiarly… carribbean."

"Ah", Blackbird replied, nodding slowly. "Not quite what meets the eye, that is."

Castellano nodded.

"If all goes well, you will not encounter any of it, and neither will I. You will fight a very worldly battle, against a british fleet, that will be defending Port Royal."

"Splendid idea", Blackbird replied. "Strikes me, why we have never done it before. So the rumors of Norrington having vanished are true?"

Castellano smiled.

"That depends on your definition of vanishing. In fact, he will be fighting at our side."

Blackbird took a moment to digest that information, and Leonora marvelled at the level of composure that he was exhibiting. Or the level of indifference.

"Interesting", he commented, after a while. "I take it then, that this is not about conquering Port Royal", he mused, then shrugged. "Just as well. However, it is quite something, that you are asking."

"And I am sure, you have thought of a price already", Castellano replied smoothly, as if he had planned out this conversation long ago. He had a way of seeming thus, as Leonora had to remark.

Blackbird considered for a moment, and then he smiled, and for a moment, Leonora recognized the predatory manner underlying that smile.

No matter what his story, Blackbird was, in his own right, a force to be reckoned with.

"For now", he finally demanded, "a favour. I will do it without an immediate price, Castellano, but I will come and collect this debt one day, and I expect it – on your honor – to be fulfilled. You, Mylady", with a bow towards Leonora, "will stand witness to this, will you not?"

Even though he hid it well, Castellano clearly did not like, what he was hearing. But Leonora had to admit, that Blackbird had probably given a fair bargain. In the complicated net of favours and debts that a spanish noble would wreath so aptly, this was more than appropriate – and probably more useful to him – than gold would have ever been. And Castellano knew this, as well.

And so he nodded.

"I expect you to be ready the day after tomorrow at dawn."

Blackbird nodded, and left shortly after, claiming to have preparations to make. Castellano relaxed visibly, now turning his gaze to Leonora once more.

"And now, my lady", he offered, "let me show you some of the wonders of the Carribean."

He did.

* * *

For the first time, the sea was calling to her. In a voice so soft, that she would have missed it, had there been anything else to do but to pay attention.

And had she still been herself.

But she was not, at least, not in the sense that she knew. She was moving, softly, aptly, as if never having done anything else, and along with the new movements, the shiftings of the sea, the currents and swirlings, warm water intercoursing with cold, as if in a very ancient dance now known to her blood when before there had only been the soft rustling of rain in green trees.

The skate was following a trail of silver, barely straying in his path, not even for the promise of a fresh, quick meal, as if something that it could barely remember, drove forward the animal body, recklessly, relentlessly.

The deep sea passed below it, and the skate felt uneasy, at wrong with respect to its surroundings. A deep urge whispered to it, to lower itself to the ground, even if it were hidden somewhere in the dark, unseen depths beneath it, but to burrow into the ground would also mean to stray from the silver, and that, to the skate, was even more scaring.

And so it hoped for more shallow waters, and the familiar safety that came with it.

With time – and space – passing quickly, yet unmarked, there was another depth being added to the senses of the animal, as if a door had been opened, allowing another level of awareness, of recognition.

As if, all for once, she understood what it was, to be part of the sea.

And, as if she understood the fascination, that came with it.

The silver lining urged her on, and passing fishes like herself, eyeing her, confused, at the sight of this animal of the shallows here, within the deeper parts of the sea, and relief was infinite, when in the farther ranges of her vision, a cliff could be seen, first beginning of the reef, that was the goal of her travels.

The skate felt a sense of proximity, and a sense of foreboding, as if this were going too easy, as if the travels had only begun, not nearly ended.

And then the incredible relief of well-known surroundings, imprinted into flesh and bone, even though some screaming part of her mind supplied, that she had never roamed the reefs and shallow places of the Carribean, never been familiar with the way that small bubbles rising to the surface betrayed all the life here, never loved the way the sun found its ways into the underwater meadow… and onto the shreds of the triangulum, half hidded between seaweed and corals.

Calling to her.

Calling…

And she remembered. Remembered who she was, and why she was here. Remembered the silver lining, that had brought her here, and the touch of magic, that lived in her like a beating heart.

Follow me, she sang, without a voice, without words even, forming water, as her voice would have formed sound, and the ancient magic of the triangulum hummed with it. It followed her, like a child trailing behind, recognizing master and likeness, broken though it was, whispering to the skate of its own soul.

And Susannah saw…

Saw….

She was singing with the wind, tearing at her feathers. Like a bird, uncaged, uncaught, laughing at earths feeble attempts of pulling her back down. A creature of the air. Tossed and torn by the ways of the wind.

Free.

And suddenly, a part of her understood. Understood, what it meant to be Jack Sparrow, understood, what it meant to be Alvin Ducater, who had carried the seal before Sparrow, understood the lure of piracy and freedom.

A feeling, enriching, alluring, captivating, transformation of her own, old self into something new, something…

Wrong.

Somewhere, deep in her core, a chord was struck, in disharmony with the others, wracking painfully through the whirling dreams of freedom, showing them, for what they were.

Specters.

Illusions.

False promises of an uncertainty, that she could not stand.

She was Susannah. She was earth. Hills of green, with the soft, sweet fall of rain in between. Endless jungles of multicoloured plants, full of facets, but steady, ever steady, reliable, true. Weathering changing winds, weathering the tide, emerging, as before, even from scourging fire.

That was what she was.

And this was, what found her way back home.

Water in her eyes, water in her ears, as the suddenly hostile element spat her out, onto the sand, coughing, wringing, fingers digging into the warm earth, chest heaving in laboured breaths of air, air again, but with the smell of the jungle nearby. The triangulum in her had was burning, scourging her fingers, and she shrank back, leaving it in the sand to spread its venom there, while she slowly raised her gaze, to the merciless fire eyes of Tia Dalma, on whose lips a small smile had spread. And Susannah began to understand, why their alliance was so powerful, and why so fragile.

"I understand", she replied, again, and again Tia Dalma nodded, lowering her hand to take the Triangulum, which hissed and writhed in her hand.

"Well done", the witch said, probably for the first time. "Well done."

* * *

The first part was easy. The breach in the fence that surrounded the Governor's mansion, had been their escape and entrance for so long, and the servants had either never found out or – more probable – never cared. It was harder now, of course, that they both had grown to be adults, but there had been days, when Elizabeth had felt the urgent need to escape, and had done so, finery and all, and there was something to be said for the sailors' attirement she was wearing now, which made sneaking and crawling so much easier.

The second part, however, was not. While Crystabella Halvery might not have known of Elizabeth's and Will's secret passage, the latest intrusion into her private sanctuarium had made her cautious, and two pairs of soldiers were walking around the mansion, spying into every corner. Another two were placed at the front entrance, weapons at their sides, and eyes spying attentively into the dark.

Elizabeth and Will, however, while they might lack Jack Sparrow's experience in the ways of sneaking and Andrew Gillette's military knowledge, could look back on years of silently creeping in and out of this mansion, and this was a force, that Crystabella had not yet reckoned with.

And thus, they now stood in the large kitchen, deserted at the moment, the fire in the stove still aglow, and exchanged a look of careful relief.

So far, so good.

Tia Dalma had been explicit about the fact, that their venture probably was the most dangerous of all – even though Elizabeth had the slight suspicion, by the look of Susannah upon their departure, that she was facing a similar plight, but the old witch had kept silent of it. Otherwise, as Elizabeth concluded with an inward smile, she would probably have failed in persuading the Commodore to go back to Port Royal, oath or not.

He was, as she realized, not quite as strict and diligent as she would have thought.

Who knew…

Slowly, carefully, she opened the door to the corridor, stepping through silently. The door to the hall was slightly ajar, and ignoring Will, who tried to sidestep her, she crept closer, and took a look through.

Candles were burning, bathing the hall in a flickering, unsteady light. It took a moment for her to register, that in fact, it was not empty. A man was standing at the top of the stairs, surveying the empty room with unmoving gaze.

Elizabeth recognized Captain Gillette.

For a moment, she was tempted to go to him. But something about the image she saw, was strangely wrong, strangely misfitting. Not counting the fact, that Gillette had always been an overly loyal man – which was no quality in Port Royal these days, considering the circumstances.

She turned over and shook her head. Will, questions alight in his eyes, nodded, delaying all questions until a later point of time. No question of traversing the hall. But the house had many servants' paths, hidden behind walls in the darkness. And Elizabeth knew all of them.

Very soon, they found themselves hidden behind a tapestry in the room that had once been Leonora Halvery's. They had hoped, that it would be deserted, and rightly so, for there was no soul to be seen. Yet, the room was not as Elizabeth had known it. The precious installations were shattered, furniture lying broken on the floor. And there was more…

As they stepped into the room, there were greeted by a whisper…

Strangers… strangers…

Removed and curious, echoing from the walls like a long-lost call, penetrating their thoughts, unignorable, ununderstandable.

Will and Elizabeth changed a quick glance.

"Come", Will said loudlessly, and she nodded, as the intensity of the whisper covered her thoughts like a blanked. And all of a sudden, she was thankful for his hand, that grasped hers, because it would have been easy just to stay where she was, listening.

Silly as it was.

Slowly, moving through syrupy thicket, they advanced to the door that led to Crystabella's lair. Elizabeth was unsure whether to hope that she should be gone – for this would almost certainly mean that she was with her father – or whether she would prefer to face her in her own lair – which, if Tia Dalma had not lied to her, would be an encounter that was almost unsurvivable.

Something was wrong with the door. Its wooden shapes seemed to be flowing from shape to shape. Faces. Images. Dreams.

They seemed to skitter from Will's hand, as they reached for the handle, but the whispers were growing louder, more intense, somewhere between threatening and scared, confused and curious.

She saw him hesitate and squeezed his fingers carefully. There was no turning back now. And the door opened before them.

It was hell. Maybe.

Everything inside the room breathed of evil, trembled under their fearful gaze. Images and faces moving along the walls, as if the chamber itself were alive, as if its walls had somehow opened to an abyss, where the faces of thousands whispered and laughed, screamed and cried, a cacophony of emotions, human and nonhuman alike, painted in wood and cloth, in glass and silver, like two pictures merging to something more terrible than even undead pirates could have been.

"Oh my god…"

The first words since they had entered the mansion, and Elizabeth stood, paralyzed, in terror, as the faces turned towards her.

It was Will, who reacted. With a quick glance into the room he had espied what he was looking for.

The dressing table on the right seemed to be breathing, but on it lay a very corporeal, very usual brush. And in it, a bunch of black, curly hair.

He bolted for it, letting go of Elizabeths hand for only a second and swaying almost immediately, as if the contact had shielded him from the voices that were assaulting her senses.

Intruder… thief… let them go… let us go… thief… warn… run…

So many meanings and intentions, weaving through the air like a painful spell.

Elizabeth closed the distance between them, and Will clutching the brush in his hand, they ran.

Hoping they would make it on time.

James Norrington was waiting for them at their boat, already seated at the rows. Heaven knew, whether he had heard the confusion, that had started in the mansion, when they had tried to leave, or whether he was just being cautious, but as he saw them running, he lost no time in trying to hurry into the dark.

But the race had only begun.


	72. But show me the way through darkness

****A/N: I knew I promised too much. A chapter is missing, but I think I know where to find it. Worst case, I have to retranslate it. Tomorrow. It's late over here now, so you'll have to make do with 4 new chapters for now.

I'll hurry with the rest. Good news, except for the chapter following this one (the title of which will be "the three-edged sword"), all are accounted for. So, still to come are

"The three edged sword"

"House of ghosts"

"Heritage of wrath"

"The end of all things"

"Epilogue 1: A slightly tainted happily ever after"

"Epilogue 2: Dawn"

So much for now

Spirit

* * *

**But show me the way through darkness**

Black was the color of despair.

And red that of a desperate call in peril.

Susannah was dreaming in images. Of sea in turmoil, streaked with blood, bereft of all life, yet not completely dead. Of fingers, long and spidery, reaching for her hair and tangling within, like a caress on the brink of perishment. Of black clouds chasing overhead, where the sun was fighting a losing battle against the darkness.

Of being torn back, unable to run, every step more painful than the last, lungs burning with the plight of it.

A desperate cry ringing in her ears.

She sat up in her bed, drenched in sweat, chest heaving.

„James!"

When Susannah, frantic and scared, came out of the cottage, Tia Dalma was already there. Placed before her was a bowl of water, shells and seaweed placed around it. She cradled the bowl in her hands, singing softly to herself, and the power of the sound tugged at Susannah's heart, without knowing, what it meant.

She dropped unceremoniously to her knees next to the witch woman and looked into the seeing bowl, that Tia already had used in her presence.

And saw her worst nightmare.

At first, it was difficult to see anything. The bowl was speaking to Tia Dalma and refusing her command, but she did her best to calm herself, breathing deeply through her nose until her vision cleared and she was able to discern shapes.

Cannonshots. Ships chasing one another over the sea. No. Not one another. A single, tiny ship was riding the waves in a desperate quest, while the ocean itself seemed to rebel against it, waves rising at odd angles, the tiny vessel swaying and almost toppling.

Following them were two, larger ships, heavily armed the first one, which fired salve after salve on the small boat, that had already plainly suffered from it, since water was standing on the deck and it was lying deeper in the water than it should have.

The other one was on its way to cutting off the escape route of the small fugitive, all the while firing cannons of its own.

The tiny ship was holding its own, but barely. Susannah could see shapes moving around, one standing at the helm unmovingly, and it was quite evident, that if not for the mastery of the captain, the fugitive would already have been prey to the unwilling ocean.

However, there was no denying the fact, that they were fighting a losing battle.

Tia Dalma softly voiced the obvious.

„They failed."

Susannah swallowed hard and fought down panic. Something in the image called out to her, like the notion that had torn her out of her sleep with the definite knowledge, that something was amiss.

„James", she whispered, as if he were able to hear.

And then, turning practical, she looked at Tia Dalma. „What do we do?"

For a moment, the witch remained silent, then she closed her eyes, and her voice sounded almost defeated.

„Nothing."

„What?" Susannah stared at her in horror. „But... she will catch them!"

„They are too far away, Susannah", Tia explained patiently. „There is nothing, that you and I can do."

„I don't believe it." Susannah shook her head. „What with your command over the seas? What with his call that has reached me here, where I am apparently too far away to reach back, while I have been schooled in these things and he has not?"

„To call and to act are two seperate things, Susannah." Tia finally raised her head to look at her pupil, that, fists clenched at her sides, seemed quite ready for a fight.

„I can not leave, as you know. And you can not travel fast enough."

„Not even as a being of the sea?" Susannah asked incredulously. „Something different, a kraken maybe, not a skate..."

„No!" Tia's voice was sharp. „Such a thing requires preparation, as you know. Prepare we did not."

„And why? Why have we..." She broke off, as tears obscured her vision. She was terrified at the thought of James, Elizabeth and Will facing Crystabella Halvery on their own, and felt helpless and lost.

„I had hoped, that they would prevail", Tia sighed. „I was wrong."

„And you just leave them to die?" Susannah shook her head in horror. „What with your mission? What with your revenge?!"

Tia Dalma whirled around to her, the shapes quivering in the bowl.

„You know nothing of it. Nothing of the shores of time. Nothing of eternity."

Icy rage gripped Susannah, and she clenched her fists helplessly.

„No, indeed", she replied, coldly. „For I am human."

* * *

„Down! Down!"

Elizabeth obeyed his call without hesitation and second thought. It had served her well to do so during this chase – the sea was his dominion, for all her bravado and intuition that she showed at times. And, indeed, her faith was well placed, as she learned by the cracking sound behind her, and the impact, that shook the small ship like a giant's fist.

Turning around she found the mast gone.

And for a moment, time stood still.

Will, Elizabeth and James exchanged glances, none of them panicked, all of them veiled with the very clear realization of the fact, that their chase was at an end. They had lost. And with them, there went the cause, the possibility of overcoming Crystabella, the possibility of saving her father.

It was James' glance, that first went to the attacking ship, chin squared, defiantly, while Will dashed to Elizabeth's side, the attempt futile, but none the less appreciated.

When suddenly realization struck her. She glanced back to the ships, estimating the distance. Far enough maybe... just quite.

She raced over to Norrington.

„You must jump."

He turned towards her, and for a moment she could see his composure slip, opening an abyss behind, but utter bewilderment was stronger.

„I beg your pardon?"

„You must swim, James. They may not have seen you. And if they have, they may not find you. Look at the water!"

And indeed, the sea was full of unrest. Waves were swirling and from all that Elizabeth knew, it was extremely difficult to find a swimmer under those circumstances.

„Out of the question", James denied, shaking his head. But Elizabeth was not to be conquered easily.

„Remember what Tia Dalma told us. She needs the four of you for the charm. Will and I, we are expendable."

„She's correct", Will interjected, face grim. „And whatever is going on out there, Governor Swann's loyality to Elizabeth might be able to give us some protection. But you..."

„... you are too much an enemy to her. She might imprison us, but that is probably it. You wouldn't survive meeting her"

James snorted, apparently unconvinced.

„Weren't we told, that she has a master command over the sea? Shouldn't she...", he shrugged uncertainly, unknowing how to finish the sentence, but Elizabeth understood anyway. Her mind bolted for the first escape at hand.

„Didn't Susannah say you were connected with the element of water? That must add up to something finally, shouldn't it?"

It was a long shot, but the only one she could grasp for at the moment. James looked around at the wide sea around him. The ship was slowly losing speed. They were running out of time.

„It may come as a surprise to you", he replied drily, „that I have little faith in the... superstitions, that seem to have become popular of late. And even less I am willing to bet my life on it."

„Not much of a bet, considering the circumstances", Will supported her. „Elizabeth is right. I have no idea what she will do, but I am very certain, that she would kill you – given the chance. Probably she has not understood who was here with us. Maybe we can lie to her – at least buy you time."

„Time." James shook his head. „You have said it yourself. It is near impossible to find a single man in a turmoiled sea. I know this area, the next strip of land is miles away. Not much of a chance, is it?"

„Have you no faith in her?" Will's voice had changed from frantic to a strange calm, as he demanded Norrington's attention with unwavering ferocity. „Because, frankly, I think, you should."

A muscle in James' face twitched, and for a moment, he actually seemed at loss for words. Then, after clearing his throat nervously, he continued in measured tones and Will knew, that James was no more talking about Tia Dalma than him.

„The way things are", he replied slowly, „I can hardly be called impartial upon this subject."

„Precisely." Will slipped his hand into his pocked and produced the brush. „Take it. And take the chance. There's no other way."

And because all three of them knew that the blacksmith was right, James finally nodded.

And, without a further word, he jumped the rail.

Will and Elizabeth exchanged a gaze, doubt in both their eyes. Yet, the time for decision had passed.

Now, all that remained, was hope.

* * *

Of what happened on the ship, he saw little, for the current was stronger than he had estimated and it tore him away from the small vessel almost instantly. He had part hoped to grab a piece of wood that was drifting in the water, remains of their uneven battle, but he was past all of the debris before he had even found a swimming position that would allow him to master the currents instead of being thrown by them.

So much for luck.

As the currents tore him away, he watched the Prometheus side up to the small vessel, anchoring to it as a plank was spread over to allow access. The angle was unfavourable, and waves obscured the sight additionally, so that he could only see schemes, all of them finally leaving for the Prometheus again. He sent a quick prayer of good will for the courageous blacksmith, and Elizabeth, who was as fierce and unconquerable as ever.

How ironic, that now, after all this time, the thought of her had lost its sting.

He wondered if the Prometheus had realized that the crew of the small vessel was one man short. They should. He knew the men, had trained them himself But his answer came swiftly – and unencouragingly – as the Prometheus started to beat, men standing at the rail, searching the waters.

The Victoria joined the search, and James swallowed water, as he was distracted by the thought, how to escape from them.

There was not much choice but to hope, that he would go unnoticed amidst the waves, and at least for this, the drift that tore him away from the scenery seemed useful. Resigning himself to his fate, James Norrington began to swim.

Susannah stormed through the forest, her skirts tattered and torn. The sunlight was filtered through the thicket of leaves above her, leaving her to run through a only dimly lit surrounding. She knew, that the jungle was dangerous enough. But she trusted the beasts and beings of the wilderness to recognize her master's pupil, and to let her trespass unharmed.

But was she still her master's pupil? For all of Tia Dalma's meddling, for all the words of encouragement, of guidance, she had left her to her own devices, now, today, where she would have depended on her most. For all of her promises of companionship, she had left James Norrington to die.

Something, that Susannah was utterly unwilling to accept.

She was yet unsure, what to do. Her grasps of magic were still feeble and unreliable, and there was so much at stake, that the pure thought filled her with terror. However, how could she ask, that others risked their life for her – that others went on a quest, that – in the end – relied solely on her abilities, when even she was unable to believe?

This, she concluded, ended now. If it had to be today, then this should be the day that Susannah Delanney challenged herself, her abilities, and her master, who had chosen to abandon her.

To save James Norrington, she would have to be at her best.

As dusk was falling, his strength began to wane. It had been early morning, when he had jumped into the water, and the currents had torn him, swiftly and mercilessly, away from the ships, that had long since disappeared behind the horizon, the search giving up, presuming him dead.

He was not, though, at least not yet, but the evening was young still, and he felt his strength fading with every movement.

Salt was biting into his skin, leaving it raw and red, and his eyes were burning with salt and sun. He had had a lot of time to ponder his actions, and with a touch of fleeting sarcasm realized, that very probably he had sealed his own fate.

Either way.

He had long since stopped swimming, only treading water, moving with as little effort as possible, even if it meant, that he could not weather every wave, that sometimes the greedy element would threaten to swallow him, and he could only with the utmost force of will bring himself back to the surface.

He was realistic to know, that he was not likely to see another morning.

A strange feeling it was, clouded through the fatigue, that had gripped him, and it seemed as unreal as the rest of his life lately, as he let it pass by, wondering at this occurence, or that. The water was swirling around him, hostile and friendly all the same, and with a sense of irony, he realized, that maybe he had not been as much connected to the water as Susannah or Tia Dalma had hoped.

Susannah...

It had been lunacy, utter lunacy to base all hopes on a young lady, courageous as she was in her own right, but even if all the strange interworkings happening around her should be true, there was a small change only, that she would have been able to devise a way out of this for him.

The irony of it...

And as the darkness of night claimed him, he did not feel anything at all.

* * *

Elizabeth Swann had seen the dungeons of Fort Charles on several occasions. None of them pleasant, of course, but it was hardly conceivable, that a young lady, even an eccentric one, might have found pleasure in the dark and gloomy surroundings, but at least, she had never truly feared that place.

That was about to change.

For she had never spent time behind the bars, sitting on rotten straw, thick walls seperating her from anything that could be called freedom.

All the while, she was being watched by two soldiers, or mercenaries, since they did not wear the official Navy uniform. Elizabeth had not seen enough of Port Royal – arriving at night and being directly brought to the prison – to know, whether their presence was customary now.

She had been seperated from Will, who was imprisoned, the Lord knew where, and night had passed into day, leaving her distraught, hungry, tired and overwrought. She had slept a few hours, curling up in the straw, but sleep had not brought rest in its wake, and when finally soft steps resounded on the stairs leading down to the prison, she was half glad that something finally happened.

It was her, in all her glory, and for a moment, Elizabeth asked herself how she could ever have thought her to be human.

Crystabella Halvery was wearing a dress of stunning red, her black curls pinned up at the back of her head in an elaborate design. Her fingers of untainted white were adorned with rings, and she looked far from the age of over fourty that she was supposed to have.

Every detail about her was immaculate. Right to the smile, that she bore on her face, almost friendly, almost charming, almost calming, had there not been an undertone, that was difficult to place, but even more difficult to face.

Elizabeth steeled herself, taking a deep breath and standing up, to feel less subdued in the conversation to come.

„The ever resourceful Miss Swann..." She shook her head in an almost good-natured gesture, a tiny shrug belaying a helplessness, that she surely did not feel. „I wonder whether you know to what extent you have been of annoyance to me."

Elizabeth smiled grimly.

„Rest assured, that it was entirely my pleasure, Lady Halvery", she replied acidly, calling forth a tiny, silvery laugh from the woman outside the cells.

„I was told that you were headstrong", she mused, smiling. „And I congratulate you to your bravado. However, there is a time for this, and there is a time for that. You can trust me in this."

„I will", Elizabeth replied coolly, sensing the trap, „not trust you in anything, whatever it is you are asking..."

For a moment, Crystabella Halvery's mask was wavering, showing the beast beneath, that was slowly loosing its patience, but then, she was smiling again, crossing her arms before her.

„Ah... Calypso, is it not?" Before Elizabeth could answer, she waved away any comment with her decorated left hand. „Of course it is. Or however she calls herself today. Tia Dalma." She chewed on the syllables in disgust.

„What do you want?" Elizabeth tried to find to the heart of the matter, and Crystabella cocked an eyebrow, seemingly amused.

„Straight to the point, eh? You are an intelligent young woman, Elizabeth Swann. Not quite as talented as my incredible almost-daughter, but clever enough, I will give you that. Surely, you can guess."

Elizabeth felt reminded of a cat playing with a mouse, and refused to be a simple prey.

„Do you think it will help my father's trust in you to keep me captive?"

But the well-aimed dagger passed without doing any harm. Crystabella smiled broadly, almost amusedly.

„Oh, it will, my dear", she replied. „Since he does not know about you being here, it will help peace very much, if he does never learn, don't you think?"

„Dangerous enough", Elizabeth spat back, and Crystabella, casually leaning against the bars, studied her thoughtfully.

„Have you ever noticed, lioness, how akin we are?" She shook her head. „Ah, the irony of it. But most probably, you will never know."

She inspected her fingers, shooting her next question out of the blue, casually, yet, barely strained.

„What is she planning? With you? With the pale child?" She shook her head, closing in on her, so that, involuntarily, she recoiled from the bars, as if she had felt a hot firebreath grazing her features. „What did you come for? Again?"

„Like I would tell you." It took a lot of courage to remain standing, her arms crossed before her chest, when Crystabella was glaring at her, the air between them growing hot and substantial.

„Oh, in time I think you will."

Crystabella smiled.

„In fact, Elizabeth Swann, I am fairly sure, that in time you will. Let me tell you something, Elizabeth. I have known the likes of you, for longer, than you can imagine. I know..." she took a measured pause, „much about you. You yearn for freedom, for relieve from restraints. Ah, but it is a sheltered freedom you seek. You want to decide for yourself, you want to avoid responsibilities. But, ah, you do not want to pay the price..."

She shook her head.

„A week here... on rotten straw, with rats for company... sleeping in what your predecessors left...", she smiled. „We will see what's left of your bravado then, Miss Swann."

She shrugged and turned, throwing a casual glance over her shoulder.

„And just in case", she added softly, „there's always Will, isn't there?"

„You don't know anything about me", Elizabeth screamed angrily, but Crystabella retreated, wordlessly, without throwing so much as a glance.

And left her alone with her thoughts of lingering doubt.

* * *

Never forget the lines of magic...

Susannah sat ashore, the waves lapping at the sand, at times touching the hem of her skirt, spread out on the sand before her. Deadly determination reigned in her gaze, and she took a deep breath, before she followed what she had learned, carefully and thoughtfully.

In the beginning, there is the essence...

She carefully had dug a bowl into the sand, catching seawater within like in a small cup. It was water, that she was trying to manipulate, water that should be bound to her will.

And then, there is the pattern.

Carefully, she wrought lines around the makeshift bowl, tracing a swirling path around it. She surrounded the path with sticks and shells, dripping water along the lines of her imagination, controlling her breath for the steps to come.

And then, there is the focus...

In the waterbowl, she carefully placed the piece of cloth, retrieved from her pillow in Tia Dalma's house, a piece of James Norrington's coat. A formidable focus, filled with never spoken dreams and unfulfillable hopes.

And then... there is power...

She had had no time to prepare vessels of power. No painted candles, no shells to break. No small animal to give its strength to the magic formed.

But there was always the most ancient source.

She took a knife into her right hand, placing it on her arm. With determination, she cut deeply, weathering the pain.

Blood...

And as the source of her own life filled the bowl, she bend the raw power to her will.


	73. The three-edged sword

****A/N: I found it.

And thanks to all for your kind words.

This is hopefully the last update for this story.

**The three-edged sword**

Drowning…

Come to think of it, it was not that bad.

A mixture of burning and freezing, but dampened, as if seen through a veil or listened to from a room across the hall. As if sheltered in a cocoon, he felt, that he was slowly dying, slowly sinking into a void of infinite peace, a place, where, at last, there would be no more questions… no more pain… no more failures.

It truly was not so bad…

Nothing to be felt of the panic, of the infinte pain that the sailors' legends told, but just a feeling of belonging, of rightfulness, as if, now, at the end of all things, everything would finally be forgiven for one golden, glorious moment, before it all dissolved into darkness.

In sunlit dreams, he saw her face, black curls, pale skin, smiling, smiling unreservedly, and he was free to go to her, just like that, to know her, as he would have never dared.

She was everywhere, amidst wave and water, in his eyes, in his ears, in his nose, as he floated to the sea, which was softly napping at the feet of endless, rainy green hills. And for a moment, he was happy.

And then, paradise spit him out.

He fell unto the hard floor, upon roots and stones, into the cold, harsh darkness. Disoriented, he groped for something, anything, to hold on to, and his fingers met water, met shells.

Met cloth.

Cruelly, awareness returned, as he spat out water and earth in equal parts, gulping for air, as he raised himself on hands and knees, to regain some semblance of control.

Only when he was sure of his posture again, he opened his eyes. Salt water was dripping onto his face from his wet hair, stinging and burning, and obscuring the sight onto the bizarre scene that was spread out before him.

Obscure patterns of earth and water were laid out on the rocky shore, decorated with shells and tang, and obscured by blood. So much blood.

Appalled, he stared at the girl, who had silently sunken to the floor, dress stained with red, her face deadly pale. He felt his heart being torn out of his chest, surrounded by icy fear, as something was ripped from him, that he had tried so hard to ignore.

Her name forced its way across his lips, but that was all the sentimentality that he allowed himself. At the end of the day, James Norrington was a soldier.

And as such, he galvanized into action.

* * *

Lua-Phey was weaving a ring of wishes. With agile fingers, hardened by the daily chores that were put before her as the wise woman of the village, she wound weed around weed, wish around wish, whisper around whisper.

It was the strongest protection charm that she knew weaving, and she could feel strength leaving her with every breath, as the charm proceeded, to be concluded in the middle of the night, when the moon would find its highest position and look favourably upon her.

She would not send Kuluk-Hye into battle without it. And battle was coming, that she knew with the certainty of a woman, who had learned to follow the path of her dreams for a long, long time, who had listened to the whispers of the ageless witch upstream, and who had sat at the feet of Kuluk-Hye from childhood, to observe and to learn.

She knew, that battle was coming, and she feared, that it might go ill. The future was uncertain and not fully unveiled at her command, but Lua-Phey was uneasy, and, in plain words, scared.

Kuluk-Hye was old, but he was more a father to her than the man, whose offspring she in truth was, and she would not loose him, not so easily.

Hence, the ring of wishes.

She was sitting in front of her cottage, which was located at the outskirts of the village, triangular shape, propped up by logs, and shaped with cloth and leather, leaves and twigs. It was her sanctuary, close to the living, breathing jungle, and it was full of strength and promise.

The trees of the magic forest were whispering of the arrival, before the first substantial sign – a stronger rustling of leaves, faint movements somewhere in the dark – could be registrated. Her concentration shattered, threads vanishing into nothingness, and with a sigh, she put down the ring and awaited the arrival.

It was the officer, hurrying towards her from the forests, carrying a bundle in his arms, that all to soon could be identified as Tia Dalma's apprentice, reduced to a mere shell, a mere hull of nothingness, drying blood spread out over her own dress as well as his clothes. She was deathly pale, but the cold on her features was nothing compared to what Lua-Phey could see in the eyes of the officer. His movements were calm, controlled and purposeful, his face near impassive, even his breath seemed calm and composed.

But somewhere behind the calm expressions of his eyes, demons were showing their ugly faces. With quick steps, he reached her, and placed the apprentice on the floor with infinite care.

Calmly, Lua-Phey took a look.

A large gash was slashed over her left wrist, stained and covered in blood that must have flown for a while. A crude tourniquet of something, that probably had once been his shirt, was applied to her arm to stop – or at least slow - the blood flow.

Which had been a good thing, probably. Judging by the color of the skin, Susannah had lost a fair amount of blood.

Lua-Phey felt the officer's hands upon her shoulders, shaking her, not too softly, but mercifully not brutally as well. She lifted her head to look into green eyes, cold and purposeful, and somewhere beneath all this, very afraid, and even if she did not understand his words, she understood his meaning very well.

Help her…

Lua-Phey was able to appreciate the gesture, that he had come to her in the hour of utmost need, that, despite all that he was, he had brought to her, what was precious to him.

Perhaps, she thought, there was hope for him yet.

She gestured for him to step aside – there were no words for this in a language that both of them would understand, but he grasped her meaning and complied, gingerly, retreating reluctantly, like a guardian watching over Susannah. The knight, Tia Dalma had called him, and even though Lua-Phey had no concept of that word, and what Tia Dalma had explained her, had not added up to a picture, she finally understood what she had meant. Protector. Sacrifice. Compassion. And more, in this special case.

She placed her head on the apprentice's chest, listening for the weak heartbeat, then looking for the breath, that was flat, but steady.

Yet, there was hope.

* * *

There were thick walls, in Fort Charles. Built as a stronghold against pirates and other enemy vessels alike, it had been constructed with a mind to imply invincibility, upon imposing cliffs, the heart of the installation buried deep within rock and stone.

The sun was shining brightly on merciless granite, heat wavering over the fortifications, where sweating soldiers strolled on their turns, their heels clicking on the floor, their gazes turned to the sea.

There were thick walls, in Fort Charles. Set apart from the village, it was separated, not only by stone, but also by air, from any eyes, from any prying ears. A mile away was the residence, where an anxious governor looked out over the city, listening to whispers in the wind and wondering, why despite having everything, he felt bereft, empty somehow, and in a way misplaced.

He watched the carts rolling up to the fortress – a shipment of weapons had arrived in the morning and was now delivered to the Navy – and only weakly the neighing of horses and the rumpling of the wheels was carried to him by the wind.

The city was bustling with activity, all ill winds forgotten for the glorious lure of the present.

There were thick walls, in Fort Charles.

And no one knew, what passed within.

"Well…" She had entered softly, and her voice cut through the silence of the room, clear, and almost benevolent. William Turner did not bother to turn around, but continued to stare through the miniature window, more a slit really, than a true window, that opened to the bright blue sea below. His hands were placed on the wall, to either side of the opening, and he tried very much not to show his unease.

His thoughts were racing.

He had been here for a day, maybe, without so much as a glimpse of Crystabella – or of anyone, for that matter. He had been placed into this room, not an uncomfortable one, with a bed and a table. Food had been brought in together with water, while he had slept, but otherwise, he had only been enveloped by silence.

Until now.

"The untouchable Mister Turner. Port Royal's biggest surprise, as I gather…"

"Where is Elizabeth?" He whirled around, not bothering with politeness. Crystabella, still standing at the door, clasped her hands behind her back.

"Not all that far", she replied, calmly. "I have to congratulate you on her spirit, though. She is… quite indomitable."

"Get to the point", William retorted tensely, and Crystabella smiled.

"The point… The point is, I wanted to talk to you. Just you." She shrugged in a strangely young gesture. "This tends to be difficult with your protective fiancée around. That is all."

Slowly, Will turned around. He felt anxious and trapped, but considering the way the situation presented itself, nothing could be won in evasion. If he were to get out of here – and with Elizabeth – he had to find our more. More, about just about everything.

"I'm listening."

"Sit, William Turner, sit." She gestured towards his bed, while she placed herself regally on the only chair in the room, arranging her skirts in what seemed to be very unruffled movements. "This may take a while."

"Thank you", he replied coolly. "I'd rather stand." He leaned against the wall, in an attempt at casuality, which was reflected in the nonchalant shrug of the spanish lady.

"As you wish", she replied, seemingly uncaring, as she leaned back in the chair. "Tell me, William Turner", she began again, watching him intently. "What do you think of me?"

William smiled a thin smile.

"To be honest, I'd rather not."

"Ah." She answered his smile with one of his own, an almost open gesture. "That is indeed an answer in itself. So then. What do you know of me?"

"That you are not who you claim to be. That you are cruel, and destroy, what you touch. And that you need to be stopped."

Her mouth twitched in barely hidden amusement.

"So that is what she told you?" She shook her head at his ill concealed surprise. "Or…", something almost luring crept into her gaze. "… or hasn't she told you anything?"

Before he could even answer, Crystabella threw back her head, laughing.

"I can't believe it!", she chuckled. "Hasn't she taught you all? Nothing of the whole, dirty, sordid story?" There was the inkling of a frown on Will's face before he could stop it, and she laughed again, openly, and he would have almost mistaken the tone of her voice for mirth. "So she hasn't! How precious!"

She stood, all of a sudden, and stepped towards him, so close, that he could smell her exquisite perfume – rose water mingled with something he did not recognize – an intoxicating thing in itself.

"She is quite a gem, that Tia Dalma, that you found, believe me. Let me tell you something about her, since you are obviously prepared to sacrifice so much for her. The least that you could ask, is to know why, don't you think?" She shook her head, partly in exasperation, partly in disgust.

"Let me tell you something about her, since you are here, William Turner, with nothing else to do. Let me tell you another truth…"

Her voice dropped slightly, in reminiscence, soft, and, to a certain extent, sad.

"We were almost sisters once, akin to one another. And as such…", a whisper of a whistful smile touched her, "we fell for the same man." She leaned against the wall, a few paces away from him, and looked out to the sea. "You are free to appreciate the irony", she continued, her tone noncommittal, even though something was wavering between the lines, that he could not grasp. "A man, touched by the gods in his own way. A man claimed by many."

She smiled grimly.

"I think you can imagine the situation. Needless to say, I ended up on the wrong side of that story. I…", she paused, only slightly, with an unerring sense of dramatic, "was the one that lost. So she was the one, whose story was told. That again, you probably don't know from your own experience." She was looking at him again, and for the very first time since he had seen her, for the very first time, there was something soft about her, a glimpse of vulnerability, all too soon covered again. And for a moment, the whole precarious construction of his thoughts wavered, as right and wrong turned out to be rather ambigious concepts, instead of the constancies he had always expected them to be.

And yet.

"You tried to kill us", he contradicted, and got a smile in return, sadness mingled with something, that was almost shame.

"I was very, very angry, William Turner. I have been imprisoned for longer than you can even begin to imagine. This is something, that you would not forget easily. And in one thing, you can definitely trust me. I will never, never go back there."

He would have almost agreed. Almost. So there was still something of the old Crystabella – or whatever she was in reality. Scheming. Plotting. Decieving.

He settled for distraction.

"Imprisoned rightfully?"  
She shrugged.

"Who is to tell? Who is to judge? You? The creature Tia Dalma that has you all lured to her, as if you were bees and she were waving a gigantic jar of honey in front of your eyes? Norrington, Susannah, even that pirate captain of yours, those I understand. They are a part of the charm, and they cannot even begin to understand, just as a bee will never understand, what makes its hive. But you. And Elizabeth…"  
She shook her head.

"When did you start to trust blindly?"

"We don't." William's voice was cautious. "Which is the whole point of all this, is it not?"

"As a manner of speaking", Crystabella admitted. "But in a different way then you want to believe." She took a step towards him. "All I'm saying is, that…"  
He cut her off, before she could continue.

"Where's Elizabeth?"

If she was annoyed, she hid it well. Oh, there was a small sigh, but more in indulgence, a mild irritation that one would feel towards a child. But nothing stronger. Nothing dangerous.

"She is seeing her father, William."

He stared at her incredulously.

"What?"

Crystabella sighed.

"Like I already said. Maybe not everything is just as it meets the eye."

"Very well." Will uneasily freed himself from the wall, taking a step forward towards the smiling lady. "What do you want from us then?"

"Well, your trust seems out of question." There was a hint of frank humour in her voice, an admittance that he would not have accepted. "So, barring this, considering that it might be difficult to ask you to step up against either the sweet seamstress or your mad pirate captain, I would settle for non-intervenience."

William considered this for a while. Crystabella was watching him, seemingly detached, cool, composed, the answering shrug to his questioning gaze elegant and controlled. Finally, he carefully answered.

"What are you offering?"

She seemed to consider, even though he was sure, that there was no such need. She had obviously planned this conversation for a very long time.

"It may have come to your attention", she therefore answered, "that the governor of Port Royal listens to me. His acceptance – his support – might be very useful in the future, don't you think?"  
Will hesitated for a moment. Truth to be told, Governor Swan had not been exactly exhilarated at the prospect of his future son in law – but equally truth to be told, he had been fair and civil about the fact. Why was Crystabella offering? But then, it was difficult to say what sources of information she had access to.

Maybe, what she was seeing was mainly the true Weatherby Swann, his wishes and thoughts, stripped naked of civility and convention.

Or maybe she was just playing on his own insecurities.

Slowly he nodded.

"It might…", he replied. "However, both of us know, that I will not take your word for it."

She smiled.

"It is a shame, but, yes, I was suspecting it. But that can be remedied. Since we, for the well-being of everyone here in Port Royal, all agree on being civil about all of this, it will be quite possible to arrange a meeting, will it not?"

William forced himself to smile.

"How generous, milady. I will certainly not forget it."

* * *

When he returned, he found, that the company had grown. Instead of solely the proud Rosa, another vessel was anchored in the waters around the witches island. And, knowing the Caribbean and its inhabitants like the back of his hand, he was not surprised of being introduced to Captain Jeffrey Blackbird, when he arrived at Tia Dalma's home.

Not, that he had not brought an addition of his own. Ragger – the lord alone knew, what his real name was – might not be much to look at, but he was the best that he could have bought for the gold Tia Dalma had given to him, and in an insignificant, yet satisfying surge of pride he realized, that the captain he had brought was at least a more impressive stature. Where Blackbird was small and sturdy, face hidden behind a trimmed, yet considerable beard, Ragger stood almost 2 meters, his skin the dark hue of the inhabitants of the African continent, scalp completely hairless, the only decoration two simple gold rings that were hanging in his ears.

He was not much of a sailor - but a hell of a fighter.

Of course, the whole thing was not really a competition, yet, it was hard, not to make one out of it, with Leonora Halvery sitting calmly in a chair Tia Dalma had provided for her, looking every inch a lady of poise and stature, had it not been for the welcoming look she had sent him, only briefly, under almost-lowered lashes, with a smile dancing around full lips.

As of yet, there was no sign of the others. And Tia Dalma, though welcoming and – by her standards – almost friendly, seemed annoyed at something, muttering to herself in a language he did not understand, scowling, and generally avoiding them the best she could.

"What's gotten into her?" He had sworn himself not to talk to Leonora, not after the way they had parted ways, when every part of his dignity told him, it was her turn to open up to him, but he would be damned, before he asked Castellano for advice.

The spanish woman smiled and half turned, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

"Susannah", she replied, and there was a touch of mirth in her eyes. "Apparently she stood up to Tia Dalma. And proved her wrong. Seems to give her a stomache pain."

"Yeah", he agreed, nodding sympathetically. "I hate a bad loser."

She raised her brows in an almost mocking gesture.

"You do? Curious…"

She winked, turned half in her chair to look at him briefly, before she resumed her previous position, as if nothing had happened. And yet, the movement had brought a faint scent of incense to his nose, something primal, not quite befitting for a lady, too exotic, too daring, and yet, just the right touch off of convention to toe the line between convention and scandal.

She was Leonora.

And Jack Sparrow most definitely did not want to think, where she had gotten that perfume from.

Nor, why it was lingering.

* * *

When she returned to conciousness, it was to a feeling most peculiar, contradicting and curious, that separated this moment from everything she had known or experienced.

She was in pain. Her arm was throbbing, but not only that. Breathing was a difficult affair, and she felt weak, drained, and cold. Her head was throbbing fiercely, and a slight remnant of nausea was cramping in her stomach.

And yet…

She was at peace.

Her head was pillowed on something soft, something firm, yet living, an occasional movement of muscles telling her, that it was a very unusual pillow, that she had been provided with. Fingers were tentatively stroking her face, her forehead, her neck, careful, soft, fluttering caresses, that left warmth in their wake. She could have spent an eternity, just concentrating on these movements, following them, tracing the trails and patterns on her skin.

And there was a voice. Familiar, yet undistinguishable at first, only slowly separating into cultivated tones, spoken at low volume.

He was talking to her. He was, of all things, telling her a story, a reminiscence to an event long gone, a safe story, interesting, but light, and yet, there was a very strange quality in the idea, that he should share something personal with her. Something so … normal.

He was James Norrington. Scourge of the sea. Commander of Port Royal. It was difficult to reconcile that image with that of the man, who was now talking nonsense to her in hushed tones, fingers running over her forehead.

Only when she felt that the story was nearing its end, she opened her eyes.

His voice faltered, ever so briefly, but only a heartbeat later, he was finishing the story, continuing what he had done, as if she were still sleeping, and he were feeling unwatched.

There was a tiny pointe to the story, a smug smile at the end, which they shared. Her hand came up to touch the knee, that she was pillowed on, in a silent gesture of thanks.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, one of his hands leaving her face to grasp something outside of her field of vision, while the other stalled its movements, but stayed where it was.

She found the strength within herself to smile.

"Good."

He nodded, placing a waterskin to her lips, and she drank carefully.

"Good", he replied, a bit lamely. And then, after a moment's hesitation, with more vigor: "You should not have done that."

Confused, Susannah, frowned.

"What?"  
"You should not have saved my life by risking yours. If… if you had…", his voice faltered for a moment, and she took the opportunity to intercept, not strong enough for a real argument, but still following a point.

"And if you had…?"

That silenced him very efficiently, his eyes wide for a moment, before, in acknowledgement, he nodded, slowly. For a moment, again, in his eyes, she saw dancing all the things neither of them dared to say or hope, and she smiled and nodded in answering. But he closed himself again, his gaze trailing to the side for a few seconds, and when he looked back at her, he was more composed. But something was lingering.

"I am not sure, that this is a good idea." He obviously had to fight bringing the word past his lips, but Susannah nodded softly.

"Me neither", she replied. "But it does not matter. None of this is real. Not truly. These days, James, are not from this world. We are walking the dominion of ghosts and spectres and cannot expect not to bring back some of them. First, and above all, now we are earth and water. And thus, we are meeting at the shore…" She smiled whistfully. "That, for now, is all that is important."

He did not understand, not truly, and yet, he grasped the implication of her words and nodded slowly, torn between pain, relief and confusion. Carefully, he shifted his position, to be able to lift her up, to let her lean against him, while he was propped up against the central tree of the tent, and Susannah helped him, when she understood, what he was doing. He secured both arms around her, and stilled, closed his eyes and allowed himself the utter luxury to dream.

"Then…", he was only half aware, that he was speaking, jumbled thoughts fighting their way to become sound, incoherent and raw, "then.. just… for a moment… let me…"

Her fingers on his lips silenced him.

"A storm is coming, we both know. But when all is raging remember this…" Carefully, she took his hand and placed it on her heart, where he could feel the beats softly under his fingertips. "The rhythm of the earth. Even under water, wind and fire, it is still beating."

"Stay." It was a request she could not fulfil, it was a request he could not make.

But in dreams, none of this was important any more.


	74. House of ghosts

**House of ghosts**

They set off in the morning, with the early tide, long before the sun had risen over the horizon. The grey twilight promised a cloudy day, the skies themselves covered with clouds, as if some might had turned its gaze away from them, away from their plight and paths.

Or towards them, for that matter.

James Norrington placed his hand lightly on the barrister before him, gazing out towards where somewhere, far beyond the horizon, Port Royal was waiting.

The "dead gull" had neither a charming name nor appearance – unsurprising, considering, that it was Sparrow who had, for lack of a better word, organized her - but to James' trained eye, the failings of the ship ended there.

To be fair, it was a strong ship, reasonably fast, but also reasonably supplied with weaponry, and James felt uneasily – very uneasily – reminded of a Trading Company ship, that had vanished a couple of months back – the_ Belfast_.

He chose not to look at the markings of the ship too closely.

What could be said for the ship could be said for the crew, strong, sturdy, reliable, and, to his surprise, quite apt at follow orders. Yet then, the towering figure of the man named Ragger, who apparently commandeered this ship at normal times, did not exactly inspire rebellion.

He made a mental note not to forget that particular vessel, nor its captain, once things were back to normal again.

If they ever would be. But they were doing the best they could, and James Norrington for once agreed with the remaining parts of what Susannah called the triangulum, that the time for action had come. In fact, he yearned for it.

A few miles across the sea, he could see the other ships – the black pearl, proudly sporting the pirates' emblem, Blackbirds Red Dragon, of which he knew by hard experience, that it was a light, very maneuverable ship, yet not all too strong in the weaponry department.

And the Rosa, another frigate, but the largest ship of their small fleet, flying – unsurprisingly – no colors at all.

Behind them, Tia Dalma's lair vanished in the mist, and he did not look back. He knew, that Susannah's slim frail was not visible any more, standing at the beach, giving him a silent, final blessing.

They had said their goodbyes, this time, in the first, greenish light of the day, a man, dressed in civilian's clothing, not wigged, but the hair neatly bond back, green eyes flashing under a slightly worn hat, and the young woman, bare-footed, in a fading dress, black curls loosely flying in the wind.

Moments had passed by without touching them. James remembered the strange notion lying in her eyes, no longer alien to him, but clearly recognizable. Curiosity, a touch of reserve, of fear, but below all that, there was something, that was so utterly, inexplicably Susannah, and it reached out to him like her hands did, enclosing his in her own.

"Do I even want to know what you are doing?" he had asked and earned himself a smile and a headshake, soft, but firm.

"I do not think so."

He had nodded – that had been expected.

"Be careful", he had said, the only thing, he could think of saying, and she had nodded. "We will both be who we are", she had replied, softly. "And to know, that you are there, close to her in body as I will be close to her in other means, will make my paths a lot safer to tread."

And then, in a final greeting.

"Do not worry. We will prevail."  
He did not know, if her words were reassurance, a touch of the strange things she was master of or just something, that she, just like him, desperately wanted to believe.

He had left without looking back.

"Gonna be a helluva rumble, eh Miller?"

Sour stench, a companionable shove to his side, that made him cringe, a shadow towering over him. This was definitely Ragger. James had settled for the name of Miller, as nondescript has he could have ever thought of, and the man did not seem to mind or worry. He had accepted James' authorily without so much as a visible grudge. He was, however, definitely longing for a fight.

And he was picking his fingers with a very ugly dagger.

James shoved the contempt of his face and nodded, his features schooled into the epitome of neutralness.

"So it would seem."

* * *

Frankly, Elizabeth would have thought the food being served in Port Royal prison to be more disgusting. Of course, the stew of indefinable meat and something, that was maybe beans – and maybe not – was far from being high cuisine, but she had thought it worse, and the smell, that emerged from the small bowl in front of her was astonishingly alluring.

Ah well, she thought, they said, that hunger made the best cook, and she had not eaten in at least a day.

The soldier, that had brought it to her, wore the uniform of the british navy, a young man, barely out of childhood, his eyes suspiciously blank as she had asked after her father, after Lieutenant Gilette, after anyone, that she could think of. His answers had been polite, presumably accurate, nondescript and absolutely, utterly useless.

And then, he had left her alone with the bowl of food.

Slowly, she began to eat. The taste did not live up to the expectations of the smell, but it was bearable, and thoughtfully, she filled her spoon, again and again.

In a ridiculous notion, she remembered different desperate times, a pirate ship, an undead captain – there's no need for false modesty, Miss, you must be hungry – but she resisted and ate slowly, carefully, while her gaze wandered through the prison for what must be the hundredth time.

How exactly had Jack and Will escaped with the key being nowhere near? And was that path open still, today?

She leaned back against the rough wall, that still showed the signs of damages repaired from the attack of the Black Pearl on Port Royal, and closed her eyes to think.

Picking the lock was beyond what she could do, and so was certainly the method of brute force. So, then what? There must be a way.

It was warm, in the cell, even though the thick walls kept out some of the heat of the day, and the air was sticky and heavy with many odors and very little breathable air.

Sleep came easily, in here.

And with it, there came the dreams.

_She was back in England, back, being a child, sitting on a terrace overlooking the sea._

_Brighton._

_The summer was past its prime, and the first airs of chill had settled in beneath a blue sky spotted with clouds. She wore a silken dress, too fine for her own taste, not fit for running, or climbing the ancient oak tree that towered the house, and that she had spent quite many hours in. But then, this summer was different than all those before._

_Her nurse had wrapped her in a broad scarf against the cold and drilled her curls to perfection, before sending her out to the terrace._

_The gloom was tangible in every breath within the house._

_The woman was lying on the terrace, next to her confused, sad child, wrapped in blankets, and pale as a sheet._

_"Mother…?"_

_Jane Swann smiled softly, sadly, and nestled a hand from the cocoon of blankets to take her daughter's tiny fingers. Her grip was weak._

_"Yes, Elizabeth?"_

_And the six-year-old child, with all the misery of a girl her age, asked the one question that mattered._

_"Why is everyone so sad?"_

_Jane Swann closed her eyes for a moment. She had, of course, dreaded this conversation, but it had come, none the less._

_"Because I will be leaving, dear one. And it is only after a long time, that you and I will see each other again."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because sometimes things just can't be helped, Elizabeth…"_

_"I don't want you to go…"_

_There were tears in Jane's eyes, clouding over the bright blue that had been so vivid only the year before. Elizabeth swallowed, hard._

_"And I don't want to go." She turned her head to look at her daughter, into eyes, that were so much her own in shape, and so little her own in color. Elizabeth tried to cling to that gaze, as if this made her elusive mother more tangible, more real. As if, by sheer force of will, she could stop the fading. "But you must remember me, dear one, and you must remember, what I said." Her hand turned from the child's fingers to the curly head, ruffling through the carefully arranged locks. "You must be brave, Elizabeth. You must be strong. Help your father, he loves you dearly." Her hand, now trembling from exertion, was running down the child's cheek, leaving a cool trace in the girl's tears. "Go your way, Elizabeth, like I know, you will. And never forget one thing: You are loved."_

_The girl, that she was, began to cry, with all the misery of a child, that did not fully grasp the situation, but was terrified by it none the less. She nodded amidst all the tears, would have agreed to anything in this moment, this painful, painful memory of a truth, and the voice of her mother continued to speak, still softly, still weakly. "You must trust me Elizabeth. Can you do that for me…?"_

_She would have, at that moment, agreed to the plea, brought forth in her mother's voice. Through the tears in her eyes, she saw the fading image of her mother, her sad gaze, as she bid her daughter a final goodbye and she began to form the words, when, all of a sudden, she was seized by the shoulders, and shoved back brutally from the grasp of her mother._

_A warm, rich, angry voice exclaimed._

_"No! Stop!"_

* * *

By the time Gibbs had found her and dragged her out of the hiding spot between two barrels of fresh water, that she had crept in, she had found her senses again, and when he brought her before Sparrow, she was positively glaring.

Jack, on the other hand, was grinning from ear to ear.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Miss Leonora. So good of you to join us."

She definitely could count herself among the chosen few, who were capable of looking regal, even if held captive by two sailors. Jack was much too smug for his own good, and much too happy with the current situation, and she would not give him the satisfaction of seeming ruffled. And thus, she shoved the dark dreams, that had caught her unawares, into the deepest parts of her conciousness and smiled.

"I could hardly miss out on your fabled hospitality, Captain Sparrow…" She put just enough emphasis on the word 'Captain' to provoke a twinge of annoyance in him, showing by an almost invisible twitch of his beard. "Besides…", she shrugged nonchalantly, despite being held by both arms. "I thought you might appreciate to know where exactly in town my mother is."

Jack made a face.

"Ah, if only to avoid her by all means possible. No offense, my sweet, but I'd rather leave that special opponent to higher powers and their pets…" His head twitched in treacherous manner to the ship that Norrington was commandeering. Leonora switched tactics, quickly as an eel. She did not, in truth, think, that Sparrow would throw her overboard – or try to get rid of her by other means – but she wanted more. Leonora wanted a part in revenge.

She wanted to see her captor die.

"Well, all the better", she therefore lied. "Still, maybe I can be of use to you. And besides…" A well dosed smile, "We're on sea, on our way to Port Royal. I don't think I'm quite as annoying as that, to drop me off at a lonely island."  
It was a subtle art. The tiny cock of the head, a slight, only ever so slight squinting of the eyes. Almost imperceptibly shifting her weight to one foot, changing her stance. Her mother had been a master of that game, but she had been the apprentice, and not a bad one at that.

Bad however was, that as far as Captain Jack Sparrow was concerned, Leonora was not quite sure, who was hunter, and who was prey.

"Hmmm…" Jack Sparrow thoughtfully stroked his beard. "Don't you then…" He stepped up to her, closer, and ever closer, until he could almost touch her. "So what's it that ya want?"

Leonora smiled. In a nearly offhand gesture, she tried to free at least one of her arms to regain a more confident posture. Jack Sparrow's closeness was not something she wanted to experience when vulnerable. "Eh, sweet?"

She smiled. And took her time to answer.

"I want to go to Port Royal", she then replied, in the same low, confiding tone that he had used before. Jack held her gaze for a moment, before he drew back, continuing to speak.

"A notion not shared by many, at the moment, yet, here we are. And wouldn't it be ironic, if all of us, who do not really want to go to Port Royal, would actually go there, while you, who, for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom, want to go there, would wind up not going?"  
Leonora's mind was racing feverishly, unravelling the strange interworkings of Jack Sparrow's mind.

"It would be… quite silly", she replied. "Besides…", she shrugged nonchalantly, before she gave her best shot. "I could just switch ships. There's always Castellano, you know?"  
That did strike a cord, and Sparrows quick turn towards her was a telltale sign of that. Yet, Leonora gave him no more than a soft raise of her brow.

"How low…" Sparrow said, deeply insulted. "You depress me, milady."

"Well…" She shrugged once more, doing her best, to seem nonchalant, and left it hanging at that, holding the wandering gaze of the pirate captain the best that she could.

And then, finally, Sparrow waved his hand annoyedly.

"Ah, well, then release her, Mister Gibbs, quickly…"

Offhandedly, he strode past her.

"Don't stand in the way, don't annoy the crew, try, please try to be silent at least at times, and welcome aboard the Black Pearl."  
Without dignifying her with another second glance, he stepped on the bridge and left her standing, where she was.

* * *

Whatever Crystabella had planned, it was obviously not working. She had not returned to see him, neither to annoy him further, nor to subject him to a changed tactics, whatever that might have been.

To William Turner, this inevitably led to two conclusions.

First, her plans had, somehow, taken a turn for the worse.

And second, the time for action had come.

Of course, it was nowhere near as easy as freeing Jack Sparrow from the Port Royal prison. And yet, Will turner had not, lately, led an adventurous life for nothing.

Forging was the art of shaping form with heat, patience and pressure, all orchestrated together to form a sophisticated melody.

He would not need heat for this one. As for the rest…

He would see.

And as darkness settled over the fort, and the shadows in his room drew longer, William Turner lay himself down to sleep.

Only to get up a few minutes later, of course. It may have been the oldest, silliest trick humanity ever created, but if Jack Sparrow had taught him one thing, then it was, that the obvious, the simple things worked in such an outstanding number of cases, that it was more often than not worth a try to go for the first thing that came to mind.

Which, in this case, meant carefully shaping the bedding, so that it seemed to hide the figure of a mid-sized blacksmith's apprentice, while that same blacksmith's apprentice now hid behind the door.

It took two hours, before anything happened, but William Turner was a patient man. Motionlessly he remained at his hiding point, waiting, until he heard footsteps drawing nearer, hesitating. A key klinked softly, then heavy locks were opened with remarkable silence and the door swung open.

In the semi-darkness of the room, Will discerned the stature of a soldier in his thirties, movements careful and silent, as he stepped inside, a plate with bread, cheese and a couple of sausages in his hand. He placed the food on the table near the door, all the while keeping an eye on the bed, which – unsurprisingly – remained motionless.

He never saw Will coming, as he crept up behind him, and when he heard the blacksmith taking aim to send him to oblivion with a single strike, it was already to late.

He went down almost soundlessly, dropping in an odd heap on the floor, as the man lost conciousness immediately.

Will, taking a deep breath that seemed to release all those muscles, which had started to cramp, as he had stood there, waiting for anything to happen, and moved the soldier into the bed.

He was lucky, the man was about his size, if a little slighter in built, and had straight hair only a tone lighter in hue than his own.

It would do, at least for the night.

He left the man behind and stepped out into the corridor.

The fort was remarkably silent, the few people, that went about their business within the thick walls, seemed not to expect any danger, or surprise. For a moment or two, Will Turner could not help being reminded of sleepwalkers, going about their purpose, without fear, but also without any emotion that would drive them forward.

William Turner was walking through a house of ghosts.

The good thing about it was – it was relatively easy to avoid them. Will, though not familiar with the surroundings, found his way without any true difficulty. He remembered what was said about the eye of a storm – that while around, chaos reigned, in the very eye of the storm, there was nothing but calm.

There was something to be said for that metaphor.

The stairs down to the prisons were easily found. Oddly enough, they were not guaded, and Will managed to creep closer without attracting unwanted attention.

Torches were burning in iron holdings on the wall, casting a flickering light onto decaying straw and bare stone, onto chains anchored to the wall and crude, iron bars.

Elizabeth Swann, however, was nowhere to be found.


	75. Heritage of wrath

**Heritage of wrath**

Like her sister, she knew, that the storm was coming.

To live on, as she had, meant to one day become sensitive to the currents and undercurrents, the torrents and streams, of life, of man, of consciousness, and with the certainty of eternity she knew, that the time had come.

He was at her side, a hand softly placed on her shoulder, and she could almost imagine that standing beside her was not, who he was, a mere tool, but a ghost of older times, when she had still felt courageous enough to defy the gods.

But her gods had long been forgotten, and they answered no prayers any more.

And all that remained was revenge.

He was so calm. Every breath of him, his steady hand on her shoulder, all promised a peace of mind, which told her more than anything else, that he was under her spell.

It was his calm that made him the military leader that he had never been. He was the eye of the storm, the root of her control over all those people, over all those ships that were right now readying to set sail into the nightly sea. As long as he was calm, they would be.

And she felt, as if she had no calm left for herself.

Shadows were moving. Only dimly was she aware of the shreds of her prison, moving beyond an impenetrable veil, whispering to her without letting her close. Her sister had hidden her minions well, and the seamstress girl was learning her steps far too quickly.

All that she could tell was, that they were coming closer. One way or the other.

With all the grace of the deceased Crystabella Halvery, she sat on a chair that had been brought up to the parapet surveying the port, and Weatherby Swann followed her suit, at her side, at this observation point.

There was no denying it.

Hidden by clouds, ships crept closer.

* * *

Elizabeth stared at the soldier, in equal measures bewildered, furious and perplexed, as he trailed her along, her hand in his, half dragging her, half leading her on, with an endless stream of explanations and excuses, that, to her, made no sense at all.

"A princess you are", he explained, "of course, of course, which is, why you cannot stay there, not in that cage, my lady, no, not the iron cage, the golden cage for you, my lady."

He had arrived, out of the blue, stepping towards the prison bars holding her captive in the dungeons below the fort.

Very vaguely, Elizabeth had remembered him. A very nondescript man, in his late thirties, thick brown hair in unruly waves was only with significant difficulty contained in a tail at the nape of his neck. The eyes, watery blue and slightly tilted, had taken on a feverish quality as he had gazed over her, pistol in one hand, keys to the door in the other.

"You must come with me, my lady."

That had been the only sentence, which really had made sense to her. Well, not really, but she had been willing to overlook this, due to the notion, that he was trying to get her out of prison.

Of sorts, at least.

From his endless stream of muttering, of cages, and honor, and princesses, Elizabeth gathered quite clearly, that the man was somewhat out of his own mind. This, however, almost eerily reminded her of a very headstrong young woman, fighting claw and teeth against an overwhelming force, that wore the dress of her mother and so very much was not.

It seemed, as if to some extent Crystabella Halvery was losing control over her minions. As if the loose leech, that bound every soldier to Weatherby Swann, and Weatherby Swann, in return, to her, had begun to allow personal interpretations of the golden commands, that followed her every word.

And Elizabeth intended to use this in full.

Crying out softly in what she hoped passed for surprise, she missed a step, tumbled, lost her footing, forcing her companion to stop in his stride, torn back by a sharp tug on his wrist.

With all the combined force of her fall and her arms, she sought to unfoot the soldier, tearing him towards her, while at the same time bringing up her knee to hit his stomach – or even lower – to prevent him from putting up too much opposition.

He fell like a rock, like a drunken man. Elizabeth, who had the advantage of having anticipated his move, turned quickly and brought her elbow to his chin in a quick, decisive movement.

He stilled almost immediately.

Carefully, she extracted herself from under his body, with a slight pang of regret, that she had done him an ill service for what had actually been a very helpful deed.

Yet, in the storm, branches were splintered.

And to clear the golden, cruel words of the ghost had been.

There is always Will….

* * *

The power of the image.

The binding of similarity.

Calmly, Susannah watched Tia Dalma's preparations being executed with the routine of far too many years of witchery. She had dreamt this night, wild images of the threshold in front of her, the weight of the decision pending thinning the veil that was separating her mind from the lines of fate, but the way was standing on knife's edge, and the images were not clear at all.

Twilight…

The power of the image.

The binding of similarity.

This was the first ring of the chain, the first step on what was to be a long and winding path. Earth and fire they were, assembled, while air and water set out on their own course, elements combined, which coexisted, but did not destroy one another.

Like this, strength would come from separate paths.

Slowly, she let her fingers run over the branch she was holding. She had spent hours walking through the jungle, looking for it, without knowing what she was trying to find. But her treacherous, strange senses had learnt to find their own way, and when she had touched it, fingers bare as they were so often, lately, she had known what Tia Dalma had sent her to.

Find that which will bind. Find what calls your power.

When she touched the branch she knew, that it would bind the ghost.

She had woven the hair James had brought, in an intricate pattern along the wood, merging earthborne life with the essence of what she was seeking to bind.

She placed it in between the circle of candles, surrounding a woven wreath of leaves and flowers. A double circle, a double prison.

On both sides of the arrangement, Tia and Susannah spoke the binding.

The earth to ensnare, to bind and to hold.

The fire for fear, for image and strength.

She was tired. So very, very tired.

Just outside her visions, demons of old were lurking, telling of fears never forgotten.

* * *

"My dear?" He sensed her fatigue, and the concern in his voice was evident.

It brought her out of her reverie, at least, her first and strongest minion, bound to her by blood and trust and many a powerful enchantment.

She almost smiled. In the murky depths, the bond between them worked both ways and tore her back from the beckoning call. He was worth an explanation, at least.

"It has begun."

He nodded, curtly, and his gaze went out to the sea again. Ships, partly hidden behind the cliffs of Port Royal, white sails shortened, but sailors sitting in the shrouds just waiting for the final call.

And the storm… waiting and sleeping just nearby.

It was tiresome to keep him outside, like a dog constantly tearing on his leech. But Port Royal had begun to become her domain as well.

The song was strong already.

And all that was needed, was the final waking call.

* * *

"She's on the balcony."

Jack flinched. That woman, he concluded, would one day bet he death of him. Not only could she move wicked silently, but the only thing that heralded her presence, now, that her lips were almost at his ear was the slight, heady smell of her hair.

Damn that woman.

"Is she?" he managed in a fairly uninterested tone – remarkable considering the circumstances, but once learned, never forgotten.

"Just thought you wanted to know."

She stepped to his side, tall, slender, black hair toying in the wind, dark eyes fixed unblinkingly towards their goal, and her very personal manner of hell.

"Sweetheart…", Jack begun. "I told you already. I will not go there. Let the valiant Norrington do this, hm? Don't think either of us want to go there. Or are you so keen on this?

Slowly, Leonora turned her head to look at him, and even in the dark, even with her eyes partly hidden by her hair, she was radiating determination and anger.

"Jack", she said, and there was nothing playful in her voice this once, just seriousness, and a certainty, that was cold as glass. "That thing", she began, "has captured me. Bound me. Sifted through my thoughts. It has turned everything I knew, everything I am against me to enslave, ensnare, kill and oppress. It has violated me in more ways than I care to mention or even think of. It has taken the few things, which I in my life hold in high esteem and has made them an empty mockery."

She let the words hang for a while, until she turned towards the conclusion.

"I do not expect you to understand. I do not expect you to help. But I will not run away from her. Not now, when I actually have a chance to thank her for her many kindnesses to me."

Jack hesitated, as moments ticked by. How true his thought about her being the death of him – in so many ways more than he had imagined at the beginning.

But that was the way of the world. There was a price to every goal worth having.

"I see", he said. "Your determination is admirable."

And he left it hanging at that.

And left the rest for the future and fickle Fortuna to sort out.

* * *

He knew the entrance to the port like the back of his hand. Right before him was the path that he had taken so often, aboard the Dauntless or the Interceptor, a passage, that he would have been able to find eyes closed. It was his very own stronghold, despite the fact, that this time, he was coming as the invader.

Calmly, he was assessing the situation.

The Edinburgh would be anchoring farthest out – she was the strongest ship, and the sturdiest one, her firepower and armour making up what she was lacking in agility.

The two frigates further in, the Prometheus – the faster of the two – probably hiding between the the rocks, where a few well placed rowing strokes could bring her into favourable wind quickly, to intercept the path of any attacker.

Well. This was how he would have done it.

And the officers, despite the whisperings they were susceptible to, were still his. The probability, that they were executing his own plans was quite high.

High enough to gamble on it.

"Ragger." He kept his voice low, but the man in question heard it none the less. Despite his crude appearance he had some semblance of understanding of both the situation and its necessities, and he had kept himself at Norrington's shoulder ever since they had had their first glimpse of Jamaika.

Which was good from a tactical, and less desirable from an olfactory point of view.

But he understood the orders clearly, and just a moment afterwards, the signal lantern was sending out the commands to the other ships, the Pearl, the Rosa and the Red Dragon.

The first shot, by way of tradition, belonged to the attackers.

Norrington, familiar with the written and unwritten rules of battle, complied

* * *

They ran into each other at the entrance of the house, just as the first cannon shots echoed though the city. Eyes wide at the surprise of both the sudden noise breaking the silence and the unexpected sight of each other, they only exchanged quick nods, and a short acknowledgement that was all the endearment they could give right now.

And then they left the house.

The city was awake in an instant. The sleeping dragon had raised its head and was roaring, all semblance of calm forgotten. For a moment, Elizabeth stopped and looked out into the bay, where she could make out the shapes of six – no – seven – ships, and fire and fury was raining between them.

But there was no time for this. The errand that she had been sent on was a different one.

The city was remarkably difficult to navigate. While, of course, with cannons roaring and the long batteries of both the Dead Gull and the Rosa taking on ships and battlements alike, the ambush seemingly had not come unexpected. Quite to the contrary was all that Elizabeth saw very calm, controlled action. There was no semblance of panic, as it had been during both the Black Pearl and the Mary of the Seas ambushes, but an orderly kind of activity, the city wide awake, but calmly moving as they would.

Of course, this time, the attack was not primarily directed at the city, but at the ships in the port instead, so that there were only few fires to be put out, and no invaders in the city, except for those two, who, left to their own devices, again tried to find their way towards the governor's mansion.

Again it was Elizabeth, who, with the experience of many years of sneaking out under the eyes of wakeful governesses and attentive servants, to visit her not-quite-appropriate friend in the lower parts of town, led the way, and Will, a stolen sword heavy at his side, followed.

Lurking in the shadows of small alleys, hiding in the green spots, that dotted the city like a carpet of children's toys, their way up to the residence was an excruciatingly slow one.

From the sea, cannon shots were to be heard, and, occasionally, the splintering of wood. The screaming of men.

In the streets, there were patrols to be avoided, but Elizabeth, paying attention closely enough to notice, realized, that many of the faces that she saw, were blank and tired. Only in some – usually those, that she knew, the faces of those, who had served close to the residence, or met her father in person, she recognized an alertness sharper than before, eyes constantly peeling in the dark, making the walk towards her father very difficult.

And yet, the words of Tia Dalma served to explain what she saw. The stronger the loyality, the closer the control. And the less strong the leech had to be, which the ghost would have to wreath around the neck of their minions.

Fealty, the very epitome of british imperial success, turned against them in the most warped of manners.

Elizabeth, in true pirate spirit, intended to use this in full.

* * *

"They are looking for something", Will concluded after a while, when they had arrived in what passed as his old neighbourhood, the crafter's quarter, where the smithy was located.

Elizabeth nodded.

"For us, I guess", she answered gloomily. „Or, if we are really lucky, for Jack."

Will shook head. "Let's hurry, Elizabeth. I have a feeling, time is not going to be our ally."

In the darkness of the garden, shadows were moving.

The men had exchanged their red-and-white coats against darker attire, as not to stuck out too much between the hedges and trees that formed this, somewhat reclusive, part of the grounds belonging to the Swann mansion.

From the waterfront and the ford, shouts, screams and the sound of cannons roaring could be heard, but here, behind the mansion, all of this sounded far away, like the sounds of a strange carnival, merry and scary in equal parts, setting the scene for the eerie quiet, that hung between them.

What would they have to talk about, when the whisper filled their ears in full?

Time passed unnoticed, as they were lurking, until at last, the prize appeared, in the small alleyway between the hedges, just as she had told them, just as she had promised.

He was unimportant, a whelp without any true calling, trailing behind the golden woman, whose brilliant eyes whispered a beckoning, not quite as strong as the one that they were following.

And so, they bound them in iron and chains.

* * *

"It did not work." Susannah shook her head. The binding had left her drained and tired, and the ease with which the ghost had shaken off the spell scared her.

"Oh, but it did, my dear..."

Tia Dalma smiled, reminding Susannah more of the predatory grin of a wild cat, than of a human being. "It was the first step along a long way. Listen..."

She raised the branch to Susannah's ear, and the seamstress stilled, as the sounds of the forest receded, the cries of the night birds, the rustling of the leaves, as wind caressed the upper branches of the forest.

And there was the pounding of a heartbeat, deep within the branch, the slow, deep pounding of something ancient and powerful. A beacon, stronger by far than the first, weak binding had been, and the path between it and the ghost was frightening and exhilarating in equal measures.

"You deceived her." Astonishment found its way past her lips, and she raised her gaze to Tia Dalma, whose smile now carried a sad note.

"Ah, child. We deceived her both. It is what we do, yeh and me.

An instinct inside Susannah called her to contradict, to emphasize, that she did not carry betrayal, that she still was...

but what was she?

Thoughts got frayed and focused, shifted and changed, in the light of the heartbeat, that found an answering call within her own heart. And just as the rhythm shifted, quickened, she felt the ghost calling upon his friend, his mightiest ally.

And the remnants of a charm betrayed could not resist.

"Child!"

Tia Dalma's voice, like a whip in the silence, called her back from the abyss, and she blinked, frayed thoughts of minutes before forgotten. And the ancient witch woman's face showed nothing but seriousness and a deadly, unwavering determination.

"It is time", she said.

And Susannah nodded, slowly, seriously. Tia Dalma had told her of the ultimate measure that they were going to take, the last, final and most glorious trick to perform. All their preparations, every agonizing step along the way had led to this instant, and all pieces in place, the chessboard would decide the checkmate.

And white queen and tower prepared for battle.

Close to the place where they had called upon the binding to prepare the rod, there was a barren. charred piece of ground, about the size of a large tent, all vegetation gone and only the bare earth remaining. It had a dark, and burnt look about it, but coming closer, Susannah smelled the mixture of fertile soil and the ash after a wildfire, the exquisite combination, where from fire and earth, purging as the former, and unwavering as the later may be, the old was torn apart to make way for new life.

Using chalk that Susannah had carried around with her for days, feeling and knowing its very essence, she had drawn a circle on the floor, four lines turning inwards towards the center, white marks on the dark soil.

A second circle, smaller, was placed at the top of the organization, forged not from chalk, but from a row of small candles, white and spotless.

Silently, Lua-Phey was awaiting them.

Briefly, Susannah closed her eyes. She had felt fear throughout her journey, more than once, even though in the past, she had been able to rely on her strange gift finding its own path, but now, a peculiar calm had taken her. She had been prepared, had done all that she could.

From here on, her life was in god's hands and her own.

Slowly, deliberately, she undressed, opening fastenings, hooks and buttons. There were many layers to a woman's dress, many layers to her, and with every layer, she shed a piece of fear, a piece of doubt, a distracting thought.

She shed the memories of her apprenticeship, and forgot, what it meant to be a seamstress.

She shed the memories of those dear to her, the few friends she had had, and forgot what it meant to be a person.

She shed the memories of her long-gone father and her poor mother, and forgot what it meant to be sad.

She shed the memories of James, of stolen moments between the twinkles of an eye, and forgot what it meant to love.

And finally, when she was standing next to the circle, she was empty and bare, a scroll unwritten, the parchment awaiting the story, the instrument awaiting the song.

For fire wove the spell, but earth provided the fabric.

And while Tia Dalma sat down in her circle of candles, she stepped into her own circle, lay down, placing hands and feet on the chalk lines and closed her eyes.

Waiting...

With slow steps, humming a children's song under her breath, Lua-Phey set to work. She stepped towards Susannah, the three sided charms in her hand, broken as they were. The charm of the air, she placed in the young woman's right hand, to be held firm and proud, the charm of the water in the left, closer to the heart. The fire on the brow, for the thought. And the earth on the stomach, for the soul.

Across the heart, she carefully placed the thrumming rod, for the trace.

Then, bit by bit she lit the candles around Tia Dalma, who had joined her song, her voice rough, her body moving slowly, as if in an unseen wind.

As the last candle was lit, she withdrew, as carefully as she had come, to the shadows and watched.

The song became louder, more intense, the simple melody weaved to a more complex pattern. The air began to thicken, as the song progressed, and the fires of the candles answered, dancing to Tia Dalma's movement, following every move of her hands, of her head.

The fire spread and extended, covered the whole candle, licked towards the chalk patterns. And then, with one, final command in a language Lua-Phey did not understand, the flames raced towards Susannah, followed the chalk paths.

And set her on fire.


	76. The end of all things

**The end of all things**

It began with a distant roll of thunder. A growling far across the sea, where clouds began to tower and first lightning flashes crisscrossed the sky.

Then, the wind picked up. A breeze, a draft, a storm, in seconds only growing from nothing to everything, and the wind brought the clouds, thunder and lightning with it.

It was pandaemonium.

The ships struggled to adjust their rigging, to hold or change course, and not to be taken apart by the gunshot of their enemies in the mean time.

It was the Rosa, trailing behind the other ships, that first spotted what was within the heart of the storm, that was arriving, a shadow in the form of a ship, and Fernando felt the blood freeze in his veins at the ferocity that it carried with it.

However, he and Blackbeard, not too far from him, and likewise at the rear of the battle, saw the ship for what it was, an enemy to be defeated, nothing more. Signals flashed back and forth, a dividing of forces between the ships in the port and the new arriving foe.

Calling upon ancient resources and age-old training, Fernando galvanized into action. Orders streamed in a regular flow, to change the rigging, to change the course. Cannons were loaded, swords were readied.

If this enemy would bleed, there would be blood.

* * *

Things were different aboard the Black Pearl. The onslaught of the fury born from air and water drove Jack Sparrow to his knees. There was no doubt, that he was one of the targets of the building tension, no doubt, that the Grey Storm was coming for him, literally and personally, with the single-mindedness of everything devoid of an own will.

The power of the storm tore at the forgotten strings, that bound his soul to Tia Dalma's broken charm, and a deafening roar filled his mind and clouded his senses.

_Fury. Fear. Icy cold. Loneliness. Eternity. Fury. Pursuit. Blood. Fear. Fury. Threat._

_Water._

Something snapped him out of his frenzy, broke the circle of screams and thoughts.

He winced and took a step back, blinked and realized, that there was water on his face.

_Rain._

And the remnants of what had been in the water bucket, that Leonora Halvery was holding, a look of such determination on her face, that he found it almost impossible not to mock it.

Almost.

For the murmuring got louder again.

And yet, there was a different tone to the musik, another note mingling with the frenzy that was the Grey Storm. A counterpoint, which purged the whispering, and the threads of his soul jumped at the memory and feel of so old an enchantment.

He realized, that something was lying around his neck, a ring of leaves and twigs, the rustling of which silenced the roaring of the storm. And he whirled around to look into the weathered face of the old sorcerer Kuluk-Hye, who had been wearing this same ring before.

„Earth to keep air still", he said, calmly, facing him. „You get to more earth to ground you."

Jack was shaking his head, even though there was more sense to the old man's words than he would have cared to admit. But none the less – even if he were inclined to leave his ship during a battle, there was no way he could see this happen.

„Are you mad? Have you looked at the water? We will be...", but he broke off, because as they were talking, they were nearing an opening in the bay of Port Royal, nothing more than a bridge of rock, under which he had, seemingly in another life, saluted to the corpses of some of his more unfortunate colleagues.

Given a bit of madness, it might be possible to grab one of this ropes – or at least that, which was hanging on the ropes - and reach safe land.

Given...

He moved to Leonora, who had followed his gaze, very aware that her goal had suddenly also become his.

He was not above the satisfaction to see that she had paled when she perceived the means.

* * *

„Miss Swann and Mister Turner."

There was a strain to the words that had not been there before.

Crystabella Halvery was standing on the balcony of the Swann mansion, looking out to the battle that raged out at sea. Her four ships had engaged the small attacking fleet in fights, while further out in the open, a wall of clouds, rain and lightning had gathered around a quickly moving shade. It was difficult to make out details, but the air itself was thick with a foreboding that could not be understood, but only felt.

Fires flared, the sound of cannon shots was more easily to be heard up here. The ugly noises of splintering wood were all the more maddening, since neither Elizabeth nor Will knew, which ships they belong to.

Yet, through the distraction, Elizabeth reflexively followed the dictates of propriety.

„Milady."

„Believe it or not." Crystabella's voice, though still rich, was carrying an ashen quality, a notion between fatigue and determination, „but I did keep you in the fort for your father's sake. I carry a certain fondness for him, you see. His loyality is very convenient yet...", the ghost of a smile danced over her features, as she still watched the battle ongoing below her. „.. he is, in his own right, a good man. I would have spared him the pain."

Elizabeth frowned.

„What do you mean?"

Crystabella shook her head, and if Will had not known better, he would have detected an old, weary sadness in her gaze, that was surpassed only by a thick veil of determination.

„His loyality is ambiguous, when it comes to you. Surely you know enough to understand that I can never allow this. Never the less, I know very well that he loves you, and I value the love that a parent can have for a child." She softly placed her hands on the railing. „I would have kept you away until this, until my revenge is done. And then...", she shrugged, „then, who knows what would have happened. I may yet leave after my deed here is done. I may leave..." There was a strange kind of dreaminess to that last sentence, age-long longing coming to a closure.

„I tried to keep you away from Leonora. I tried to keep you inside the house, away from anything that may be harm. I tried to avoid to have to kill you!"

She whirled around now, furious all of a sudden, eyes breathing fire, and even Elizabeth, brave indomitable Elizabeth took a step back at what she saw there, at the utter inhumanity pressed into a thinly veiled human form.

This, she understood, was what Susannah had seen, and what had made her break down screaming.

Yet, she was better prepared and stood her ground, while Crystabella continued.

„But you! You have no respect, no value for a bargain such as this. You have hindered me, robbed me, spied, allied with those that I consider my enemies, and came here, more than once, in the intention of doing me harm. My patience, Elizabeth, is at an end."

She took a step closer, and her voice was freezing.

„Consider your protection waned."

* * *

James Norrington saw the Grey Storm coming with a mixture of foreboding, anticipation and the utter dread that is only natural in the face of something overpowering. Like Jack Sparrow, he felt the onslaught brutally, but he was better suited to withstand, because, of course, loyalities were more divers for the Grey Storm, when it came to the figure of James Norrington.

With slow, deliberate movements, he removed his hat and shrugged off his coat. Ragger, watching him, frowned, but to his credit did not ask, but instead turn the steering wheel, bringing the Dead Gull onto a different course.

The time had come. All things were coming to an end.

James stepped towards the pirate, checking the fastening of his weapon at his hip and nodded appreciatively.

„I guess the ship will be yours again", he told the Ragger, while another salve of cannons made a very near miss at the rump of the Gull, only thanks to the recent course correction. The pirate answered with an appreciative grin and nodded.

„Ye got guts, eh?" he drawled barely understandably. „Me'll stay clear of ye when dis is over."

Norrington answered with a grim smile, dimly remembering another time, another pirate, a day's head start that had turned out fatal...

„A wise course of action, I would agree."

Ragger grinned and tipped an imaginatory hat, and then the ship required his attention, all of his attention, for they were nearing the heart of the storm.

Its wrath tore at the sails, and the ship rolled from side to side, sailors sliding expertly on the lopsided decks, while they were forcing their ship closer. Out of the mist, he saw the proud ship appearing, the torn sails, the ghostly figures that were moving about the deck.

And every step along the way, a whisper carried him onward.

It had begun as a breeze, one, that James had hardly recognized. Like a foreign tone in a melody, the underground of their battle had changed.

As if coming home to a friendly hearth fire after a long travel. As if finding the homely shores after long travels at sea.

As if remembering half-whispered conversations in the dark, warmth tingling through every fiber of his body.

And while he neared the Grey Storm to fulfil an old destiny, to come full circle, James Norrington briefly closed his eyes and searched what fortitude there was to be found in the inexplicable, yet omnipresent presence of Susannah.

* * *

„This is very disgusting."

Jack tried his best not to laugh, but of course it was to no avail. The picture of Leonora Halvery, regal Leonora Halvery, covered in grime and worse, drenched to the last layer of her clothing, black, usually impeccable hair hanging down limply, was just too amusing.

„Being picky, sweet?" he retorted, while she did her best to clean up at least a little, wiping hands, face and bodice with water from one of the pools that had formed in between the rocks they were currently standing on.

It had worked. The Pearl had crossed the formation, and himself and Leonora had found their way, from the Black Pearl rigging to the ropes that were hanging within the passage, displaying what remained of some of the more unfortunate pirates.

Granted, he had seen better places and he had not been overly fond of the way he had had to take to get to the mainland, but he did feel substantially better, once his feet had set on solid ground – a foreign notion in itself, if there ever was any. In that at least, the words of the witch and her minions were to be trusted.

And the company was good. A hostile city, raging beast, soldiers everywhere, cannons, gunshots and fires, no fun to be had, but the company was good. Leonora, drenched, face still dripping from her cleaning, her dress clinging to her like a second skin, was quite a sight to see.

One might almost forget, why one was here.

Almost...

But Jack would not have been Jack, had he not at least assessed the sight.

And, when Leonora did not react quickly enough, stolen a kiss.

She froze, for a moment, in utter surprise, before she responded. It was a heady thing, kissing her. A mixture of earth and fire, like energy in its purest form, like the ground under his feet and the heat in his veins.

For a moment, old and new enchantments mixed, until he realized, that he was drunk on more than Leonora, and that time was passing.

And thus, regretfully, he retreated. She looked slightly flustered, and still dripping wet, and for a moment he thought, that he was in for another slap in the face, just like the one she had given him before.

But then, a smile stole its way on Leonora's face, and, the effort almost invisible, she shook her head reprovingly.

„Getting sidetracked, are we, Jack?"

And before he could even reply, she strode past him, putting her feet carefully on the rocky ground, and headed towards the mainland, where, high above the bay, the governor's mansion was situated.

Jack, despite himself, hurried to catch up with her. Indeed, there was an enchantment hanging in the air, that he could not deny. The assault of the Grey Storm, silenced effectively by the braid the old schaman had given him, was now overlain with another kind of whisper, an awfully familiar magic, that reminded him of his old promise given to Tia Dalma, of words spoken in front of the broken door of a cave, as it was slowly reassembling itself, the charm rewoven, that had started all this mess.

Jack had no idea, what Susannah and Tia were doing, but in a way, it was working. The fury of the grey storm was quenched, muted, and while it was still raging, it was doing so less ferociously, because its water and wind felt the carpet of fire and earth, and they were bound in shackles.

Jack shook his head and stepped on the mainland, covered a small grassy patch before reaching the road that passed the hanging rock. Leonora was waiting for him, and dimly, Jack realized that he was going exactly where he had not wanted to, but at the same time, there was a strange rightness to this move that he was unable to fight.

He was called to Crystabella, to finally face her, in an inexplicable way.

Well then, he thought. Drawing on chuzpe and his proverbial luck, this might just prove to be another interesting day.

* * *

Elizabeth glared at Crystabella, drawing on all the fortitude that she could find. The unexpected confession of the ghost had taken her aback, but she was finding her footing again, improvising her way through the situation. And one thing had always worked: Elizabeth Swann was well aware that she presented a valuable booty.

„Let my father go!"

That did surprise her, and young William Turner as well, who took a quick step forward, to do... something, only to find himself restrained by the unyielding grips of two soldiers.

Elizabeth whirled around at the sound and took in the situation with one gaze, issuing the next command in a voice that came clipping, and cold and completely automatic.

„Release him."

Something in the eyes of the soldiers flickered. For the briefest of seconds only, and yet it was enough for her to understand.

A wicked smile crossed Elizabeth Swann's face, halfway between cocky and surprised, and Will was not sure, whether he liked it. And then, again, this time with deliberate determination, she gave her best shot. Her voice was reeking authority – no one did grow up being brought up in nobility without the ability to call on that kind of resource – her posture tall and proud.

„My name", she began, „is Elizabeth Swann. Daugther of Weatherby Swann, governor in his majesty the king of England's stead. Remember who I am and release Will Turner."

The grip on Williams arms loosened, but Crystabella galvanized into action, dragging Elizabeth's thick braid, tearing her back and almost causing her to fall.

„Silent, girl!" Like the deafening sound of a battle drum, like a tsunami brought on to the shore, waves of pure power washed over Elizabeth, and everything around her exploded. Pain flooded her senses, filled her vision and brought her to her knees.

William Turner was only very little less affected, and he sagged in the strengthening grip of his captors, his defense waning.

Slowly, coldly, Crystabella moved in for the kill.

* * *

„Backboard, backboard!"

Fernando Castellano turned the helm and issued a stream of hasty commands, as the Rosa rolled to the side, hit by another cannon salve, and only very narrowly avoided the changing course of the nightmarish heart of the storm. While the most brutal part of the onslaught had subsided, the winds were still more than treacherous, more than stormy and made the fight and navigation a hellish work to be done.

They were, as far as he could tell, aiming for a truce. The Black Pearl was still moving, quickly as was her habit, but her cannons were weak in comparison, no match for the other ships of their fleet. One of the frigates was following her, shooting futile salves while the Pearl evaded, and yet, Castellano could also see the 'Mary of the Seas', which moved to cut the path of the Pearl, and that was most definitely not good.

He was, by his own right, engaged in a battle on two sides, drawn between the Edinburgh and the Grey Storm, which was flanked, on the other side, by Blackbird, who had managed to land a few well-aimed shots at the rigging of the Grey Storm, but alas, it had continued unaffected.

Apparently, Norrington was now joining the fight as well, because the Dead Gull had changed course and was now heading directly towards the enemy, in a course that would bring them very close to the flank of the ship.

Castellano shook his head. On the former commodore's ship, he could discern hectic, yet very distinguishable activities. He had never before thought the commodore to be a madman, but now, he felt sure, that moment had come. For it would take madness of almost sparrowesque propotions to try and board the living hell that was the Grey Storm.

He hesitated for a moment. But on the other hand, Fernando Castellano was no coward. And, more importantly, he was not going to stand back for the songs of great deeds only to be sung about an englishman.

And thus it was, that Norrington and Castellano met aboard the Grey Storm, when all hell was around them. In the eyes of the former commodore, there was a certain amount of surprise, attributed partly to the fact, that Castellano was here at all, and partly to the fact, that his crew was boarding the 'Prince of Wales' with significant efficiency.

He was aware, however, that it would have been very difficult to do what he intended to do without the spanish help.

True, the sailors were concentrating on their spanish foes, swords drawn, and attacks ferocious, while they mostly ignored him, and he only had to deflect an errant blow from time to time, which seemed to have been directed at him more by coincidence than true malice.

He exchanged a short nod with Castellano, a thanks of sorts, and the only acknowledgement he could give him at the moment, and then was on his way, to the two lone figures, that were standing at the helm, surveying the chaos with military efficiency.

Norrington senior seemed to have recovered from his first encounter with his son and again was the epitome of a british officer, the greying hair hidden by a fading hat, arms clasped behind his back in a gesture, that his son had inherited without being aware of it. The similarity between father and son was obvious in many ways... the tilt of the head, the shape of the eyes, the thin, strong line of the mouth.

At his shoulders stood a second officer, lower in rank, but James did not need an explanation as to whom he saw there, even though the similarity was much less obvious.

The hair was reddish, but the fair skin, touched with freckles almost indistinctive in the flickering light, was well known. The shape of the eyes was unfamiliar, and so was the nose, but when he pressed his lips together, dimples appeared, that would probably have also shown up, if he had smiled.

There was no mistaking, that he was faced with Jonathan Delanney, his father's faithful lieutenant, and quite as long lost and dead as he. He was facing, next to his father, also the father of the woman that he... cherished, deeply cherished, and he was not doing so alone.

For even though he was standing on a ship, adrift at see, amidst a storm, he felt the steady earth beneath him, akin to the beating of his own heart.

And he knew, would he turn, he would see Susannah standing aside him.

Sort of.

Which was exactly why he didnt look that way.

* * *

„What is going on...?"

The voice was confused and carried the plaintive notion of a child prematurely awakening from slumber. And yet, within the eyes of Weatherby Swann, standing in the entrance to the balcony, there was something more. Confusion, and a promise of anger, triggered by the sunken forms at the floor, that unmistakeably could be attributed to his daughter and her fiance.

Crystabella Halvery whirled around to him, and for a split second, someone with an awareness superior to that of the Governor of Port Royal would have recognized a brief notion of being unsettled in her black eyes, a wavering expression for just a moment, before a serious expression washed over her features, erasing everything that might have been.

„Weatherby", she purred, „you're awake. I thought you were sleeping."

She was stating the obvious, and yet buying time, changing her posture slightly to face him diirectly, hands on her hips and a smile magicked upon her features as if this were nothing more than a chance moonlight encounter.

Magic was seeping from her figure in an almost tangible way.

Weatherby Swann frowned and slowly shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts.

„No", he replied slowly. „I'm not."

„Well, good then." She took his appearance in her stride, adapting, slippery as an eel. „Come, come here, my dear." She stepped towards him and took his arm, bringing him towards the balcony, from which the raging bay could be observed. „It is good, that you came." Her voice was molten honey, weaving spiderwebs around his thoughts, deflecting, ensnaring, anything to distract him from the horrific familiarity of the two figures on the floor far behind him, and it was working. She was showing him the battle, explaining ships and moves, explaining friend and foe. Pain shot through him at the sight of his city besieged, his weaponry in full force against an assault, that he had not seen coming despite all her whispers.

„Why are they doing this?" he asked, bewildered, and she shook her head sadly.

„Envy is a green snake, Weatherby. An ugly, green snake."

„Funny you should say that."

The voice was so casual that it seemed completely out of place in the nightmarish scenario. It might have been fitting on a sunny beach, or in a nightly, brawly tavern even. But here, on the balcony, the voice of Jack Sparrow had, despite its lightness, quite the rousing effect.

Crystabella whirled around and found herself facing quite a different scenario.

Of her guards, three were lying on the floor, be it unconscious or dead, and a fourth one was, right now, very quickly disposed of by a revigorated William Turner, who, his bound hands freed, did not need any weapon to send the man into oblivion.

Jack Sparrow was unceremoniously dumping a hatfull of water over Elizabeth in an attempt to wake her, and the ugly mound of a weapon was gazing at Weatherby Swann from out of the hands of a very angly, very determined Leonora Halvery.

Who, to make things worse, smiled.

„Hello Mother."

* * *

„Father."

He would have wished for his voice to be steady. He would have wished for his heart to be calm. But the ancient charm of loyality and trust wavered both ways, and he was caught in a storm of dismay and pain, of sorrow and love. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped towards the towering figure, raising his voice a trifle, without shouting, with the practiced ease of a lifetime of commanding. „Father."

Something vibrated within his words that was not by his own doing, an echo of a second voice, a touch, as trembling and unsteady as his own, but finding strength in unison.

And both figures at the helm turned to take notice of the intruder.

A second stretched into eternity, as James saw in his father's eyes all that he knew already, the lifetime of servitude, the pain of memories, the desperation.

And once more, a battle lost in his eyes.

„You should not have come, my son." Tears stood in his eyes as he watched him, while the face of Jonathan Delanney showed nothing but surprise, his gaze wandering around erringly, apparently looking for a voice the source of which he could not place.

And almost inaudibly only he whispered.

„Susannah... child..."

And then, his face contorted in a terrible pain, torn between words, loyalities and commands, before he screamed.

„Intruders! Get them!"

James, weapon still in hand, swung around to survey his surroundings, and indeed, quite a lot of sailors had heard the call and turned their back on the spanish, to face him, as he was standing alone, bracing himself against the onslaught.

„Fire is, where it began. And fire, where it ends." The voice was resounding through his chest, through the planks and cracks of the ship. It was in the howling of the wind, in the beating of the sails. It was in the clanging of weapons, in the shouts, in the cannons roar.

And it was there, because he had brought it with him.

In the split of a second he understood the perverse symmetry, understood, how he had been used, how the somber charm had been woven.

She could have never come by herself. And neither could her minion. But Susannah, her life, her being entwined with his, followed his step by the bonds of loyality, and Tia Dalma, bound to Susannah by a different kind of promise, in turn followed her pupil. And for a dreadful moment, he wondered how much of what was between him and the seamstress of Port Royal, was really a charm the witch had woven, was really nothing but trickery and a weaponry of another kind. But he was long since in too deep, and the wave took him away.

Loyality, the strongest weapon of the ghost, was also its greatest weakness.

And so, the countercharm had been woven. He had brought the doom of his father and all his men with him.

Candles flickered, torches burned brighter. The air within the storm seemed to gain in warmth and substance, the notion of raw, pure power floating around them and taking them with it.

In the onslaught, he could not even see the men gathering around him, but the strength that was Tia Dalma was claiming her prize and her hold on him. And everything happened, as it should.

„Earth is the vessel. Earth is the strength."

Now, Susannah's voice was soft and calm, soothing the fire, directing its path. He closed his eyes and let her voice carry him, as it provided a haven within the pandemonium.

„The steady, beating heart of life. The crystal sleeping within the storm."

Eyes closed, he could feel her, could feel the omnipresence of Tia Dalma, could feel his father, hesitating for a moment, and his loyal lieutenant at his side, torn between love for his captain and love for his daughter.

And he understood, what the witches were trying to do.

„And water is the refuge."

The sea had been the place he ran to. The sea was his life and his love, the place, that brought out what was true in him. It was home. It was refuge. It was shelter.

And water and earth met on the shore, a wild coast caught between a stormy sea and green hills covered in soft, soothing rain.

And nothing, nothing would come to harm here.

* * *

He was sitting on a rock inside the boiling waters, the waves crashing against his boots, soaking his trousers like a careful promise.

Susannah was standing on the shore, hair drenched and curled from the rain, and a small, oh so careful smile on her features.

And in between them, where sea and land met, he saw the silent figures of both their fathers, calmly sleeping in the dream of the refuge that they had created, and the call from outside did not bother them any more.

Frowning, he turned to the seamstress.

„How..."

„Hold the line with me, James."

She stretched out her hands towards him, and even though they were seperated by sea and land and distance, he could feel her taking his fingers into hers, an almost physical representation of the place they had summoned. „Hold the line with me against her call. We are their children, loyality bound and loyality sworn. The only thing in this world they can bring themselves to trust. She cannot touch us, we are part of the charm. And thus the only thing that can seperate them from her."

They were standing face to face, on sea and land, hand in hand over the silent figures of their fathers.

„Hold the line against the darkness with me, James. Earth and Water protect. Let fire and air weave their destruction alone."

And he did.

* * *

„Put the weapon down."

The calm in Crystabella's voice was deceiving. It carried an irresistible pull, and Leonora's hand was wavering. But fire breathed in her eyes, and a deadly determination carried her on.

And within her heart, the whispering of the witch woman strengthened her spirit against the beast.

„I am", she began, carefully syllabing out every word, the strain only to plain in her voice, „very sorry. But no fucking way."

„That's it, sweet." Jack Sparrow grinned broadly. „He's your connection to all of this, is he not? Without him..." He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he were having an easy conversation, and not something, that might tip the scales in either way, bringing him to his doom or his salvation. And in a practiced movement, lifted his own weapon as well and followed Leonora's aim. His smile was forgiving.

„Just to be certain."

But Weatherby Swann did not look at the deadly threat pointing at his chest. His gaze was fixed, eyes wide, with all the attention he could muster, on the slowly stirring form of his daughter.

„Elizabeth", he whispered, and Crystabella took this moment to whirl around to the sea, where the progress of storm, rain and terror was waning, and where a deceiving whisper, that had almost conquered sea and city, was dying down.

And for the first time, Jack could feel her fear.

„No!" she shot out, vibrating with tension, and began to utter a string of mutterings, a language, more remembered than known these days, words upon words with no one present to follow them. Weatherby Swann was trembling under the assault of her commands, and the silent, unconscious forms of her faithful servants nearby stirred restlessly, drawing closer to wakefulness with every second.

„Father, don't listen to her."

He wavered, a leaf in the wind, but Elizabeth was not to be stopped, now that she had the chance. She held his gaze, knowing that she was literally fighting, not only for his sanity, but for his bare life. She was not prone to the illusion that either Jack or Leonora would hesitate only for a second to end what they began.

„Father, you've been betrayed. Look around you! Look what she's done. It's us that you're fighting out there!"

He frowned, softly. „... us...?"

„I've come back, father", she continued, coming closer to him, step by tiny step. „And James is out there. James Norrington, you remember."

„He's a good boy, James", her father replied, meekly. „But he betrayed me...", and then, in a moment of shock and horror, „you betrayed me as well!"

Elizabeth shook her head, her voice beseeching.

„No father. No. Listen. Listen really. Listen to me."

And then she had reached him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her voice was pained, and tears were glistening in the corner of her eyes. „Listen... to your daughter..."

His face contorted, if in pain or in recognition, she never knew. And just once more, he whispered her name.

But then, finally, Crystabella realized what was going on. She whirled around to father and daughter, and the world contracted to simplicities, to powers and commands, to facts and realities, to mountains not to be moved and tides not to be withstood.

Time ceased to pass, and with all the power at her disposal, Crystabella bent to her will what was hers to command, and father and daughter bowed her head to the somber force within her.

And then, two loud cracks tore the sky asunder, and everything fell apart.

It was Jack's bullet, that struck down the governor.

And Leonora's hit the ghost.

And of course, the bullet was just a bullet, a tiny thing, a distraction, but this was all that was needed.

Bent on securing her grip on her minions, she slipped, for just a moment, and pain and blood wiped out the mind of the man, that was the link between her and the world, and this very split second of confusion was all that Tia Dalma needed.

She came upon her enemy with the force of a volcano erupting, the hatred of ages purged into one single thought, the power of fire and fury, brought about by the air that was Jack Sparrow, brought to her by the moment of diversion, and fire showed no mercy, no hesitation, no boundaries, until the deed was done and all, that had been given to its feed, was done, destroyed, and the ashes going with the wind.


	77. A slightly tilted happily ever after

**Epilogue 1: A slightly tilted happily ever after**

They met on the shore, as it seemed they always would, between the land and the waves, where elements met, and yet not mixed.

„Tell me what happened."

She was sitting on the beach, bare feet, wearing a dress simpler than the one that had brought her here, and looked strangely like a creature from the wilds, hair unbound and falling to her back as if she did not care.

He, too, was changed, wearing the uniform he still felt he no longer merited, but he had not shied away from the duty, and he would not do so now. He sat – carefully, not to soil the garment – and tried to sort his thoughts.

„I am not sure I fully understand."

But Susannah uttered a small sound, quiet, but probably the angriest sound that he had heard from her through all that had happened to them, and it tore at a hidden string inside him, painful and deep.

„When did we start to lie to each other?"

He closed his eyes against the reprimand, because he understood her pain. She saw too clearly, she always had. And it did not make anything any easier.

„You are correct", he confirmed, silently. „I apologize." And then, without looking at her, he continued. „Ask, then."

„Our fathers?"

The pain in her voice mirrored his own, and he clenched his fists involuntarily, trying in vain to maintain full control over what he was saying.

„Why are you making me say things you already know?"

She smiled sadly.

„Because we both need you to."

And he remembered...

_the slow beating of the heart in the refuge... seconds stretching to minutes to eternity, and they formed a circle, of earth and water... a shield to hide, a mole against the tide of her fury..._

… _and then, silence settling in... and the heart beating more slowly... more slowly..._

_he had looked up into the eyes of Susannah and seen her tears there, running freely... and he rushed to the silent form of his father, lying on the planks of the ship... and he bowed down to catch his last breath, his last words... a last thanking farewell... and then nothing..._

_a ship of deads and ghosts, nothing more... and after an eternity, the hand of Fernando Castellano on his shoulder, bidding him to get up._

„I am sorry."

Susannah, the same tears in her eyes, nodded softly.

„So am I, James. So am I."

And then, the first breach of the space between them since he had arrived here, on the witches' island, her fingers on his, and he found ground under his feet once more.

„Will and Elizabeth?"

He had to smile at that.

„Indomitable. Indestructable. As always." A small laugh threatened to bubble up. „Eager to be married."

That elicited a small laugh from Susannah as well, and he tightened his fingers around hers, in a silent thanks and encouragement.

„The governor?"

„He will live. It will take time – and care – but he will live."

She nodded, softly.

„That is good. And as always, things tend to themselves."

He felt inclined to agree.

And yet, the damage done had been severe. Port Royal was maimed, both on the inside and the outside. The fall of the ghost had destroyed the ghastly charm that had held the city in a death grip, the bounds of magic that had driven on the soldiers dropping. The resistance against the onslaught of the army had crumbled, and everything had drifted apart in a mixture of confusion and shame.

There were few to put order to the chaos.

James himself had taken control of his former men, authority settling over him like a second skin. He had restored some semblance of structure, secured a rudimentary watch and gave everyone else time to relax, to recover and to think. Lives had been lost, but what was more, the confidence of many of his soldiers had not survived the plight of Crystabella's reign unscathed.

Time would tell, where they would end up, but no one had objected to him taking back command, at least during these troubled times, and he had done what he could.

And then, of course, there had been Elizabeth and Will. The governor's daughter possessed a natural will and ability to command, and where his voice had not been heard, hers certainly had. She was, indeed, indomitable, and rose to this challenge as she did to any without a single doubt of success in the end.

And where her voice was too far to be present – among the simpler folk, among the tradesmen – the trustworthy figure of William Turner covered, what she could not.

Between the three of them, the city had been at least superficially restored to order.

None the less, it had taken two weeks before he had dared to take the trip that he desired and feared most.

Back, to Susannah.

Between them, the chasm gaped like a mound. The memory of what had happened, the revelation that both of them had had, stood between them, growing with every second passing.

„They are."

She smiled sadly.

„That is well."

Silence settled, and he was fumbling for words. An instinct, drilled into him from early youth, told him that he should lead the discussion, should say what was needed to say, but he could not force the words past his lips.

Because this was Susannah. And even thinking about her was painful.

Yet, even at the end of all things, Susannah did not loose her courage.

„So this is the end."

He swallowed against a lump in his throat and avoided to look at her. Moments in time, flashes from another world, danced before his eyes.

A serious gaze, worried, intense, as time rushed by in lazy steps... her face contorted in fear before his eyes... a shy, careful laugh between dark strands, wind torn, wind toyed...

„Was it ever real?"

He hardly dared to voice what had to be said. But he knew only too well, that part of their success had been linked to their connection, that he had carried her with him – and Tia Dalma with her – because at that moment in time, he would have done anything, almost anything for her.

But, unlike Elizabeth, she had been caught in the same web, only now to stand before the shreds, understanding, that they had been used, and twisted and warped, until they did not know any more where they ended and Tia Dalma's game begun.

„What is real, James?" She sounded infinitely sad. „It was true. It carried the charm. It was as real as these things could be. But real also is a fire, that goes out when the wood is gone. Real is a storm that vanishes with the break of dawn. Real is a word, that is heard, and then forgotten." She shook her head. „It does not matter, James."

He turned his head to watch her, her face turned towards the sun, her eyes closed. She looked calm, but distant.

And if he had not known, that all of this was just a specter, a trickery of Tia Dalma, who had used them all, for good and for ill, he would have loved to take her into his arms, glad, that she was alive, glad, that she was there, trying to forget for a moment all the dictates of damn propriety to allow himself a moment of peace.

But James Norrington did not trust the fickle workings of witchery. Not even hers.

And he was nothing, if not strong. And thus, he asked the question he feared most.

„Have you known?"

She shook her head softly.

„No."

The betrayal in her words was as strong as the feeling inside his heart.

„But how could she do it?"

Susannah shrugged, but now she turned to him, and the gaze of her eyes met his, clear and painful.

„How would I know, James? There may be a hundred bindings, a hundred steps. I do not know. And I do not care."

She raised her hand and softly touched his chin, a soft obeisance, nothing more. „At the end of the day, she saved your world. Their world. At the end of the day."

„But at what price?" he retorted, before he fully understood, what she had said, and he almost did not dare to ask. „My world?"

She smiled sadly.

„Look at me, James. I cannot go back. I know that. You know that."

Against better knowledge, he asked.

„Why not?"

This brought tears to her eyes, finally, after all those words.

„Because this is what I am." Desperation tingled in her voice. „I am a witches pupil. A child of the in-between. Much as I want it to be otherwise. To go back would drive me mad, as it almost did before."

She turned towards the sea once more, and her face became carefully blank.

„But you belong there, James. This is your city. Your place. It always has been."  
He understood where she was going at, and considered protesting, but whatever for? She knew it better. She knew everything. And there was no lying to her, no matter how much he would have wanted it. „I know", he therefore replied, because it was true.

„And even if I did..." She shook her head. „James, I'm a seamstress. Official by heritage, yes, but... nothing more. While you are..." She gestured weakly to his uniform, stifling and supporting, and he might have objected, that Port Royal had become a town, where governor's daughters married blacksmiths, but he knew fully well that he was no Elizabeth, and Susannah was no Will.

And thus he replied the only thing he could, his voice steady, but his hands trembling.

„I know."

„And that is, what remains at the end. Whatever was true, whatever was real. We are sun and moon, James. We cannot exist in the same world. And only at twilight we meet."

He swallowed town a bitter taste and did not dare to touch her, as much as her forlorn voice seemed to beckon him to.

„So this is the end." It was not a question, because there was no argument against her words. Maybe, a younger James would have given a passionate claim for love, for feeling overcoming all obstacles, but feelings, it seemed, were just another tool in a war, and just as arbitrary as a gunshot, its goal unsuspecting, undirected, and manipulated all to easily.

She did not respond.

But she did not need to.

He knew the answer, anyhow.

* * *

When he left the office, night had fallen already, and bright stars in the sky shone down on the city of Port Royal, which lay in deceptive silence.

His exhaustion was bone-deep.

The damage wrought by the ghost was a complex enemy to battle.

The breeches in the wall were comparatively easy to fill, and the ranks of the dead could be replaced, with time and training, with young recruits or new soldiers to be sent from England.

It was, on the whole, a chapter to be only carefully breached in the letters back home. To the official world, the nature of the attacker was not clear. Maybe the spanish – Fernando Castellano had appreciated the publicity and even sent a thinly veiled note of thanks to him that dripped of the skillful sarcasm that Norrington knew the man to be capable of – or maybe pirates, with an unusual weather phenomenom thrown into the bargain.

But the truth was something that everyone involved tried to forget as swiftly and decisively as possible.

Of course, there would be a hearing as far as his own behaviour was concerned, but this was not the foremost worry on his mind.

Because the damage went deeper than that.

The city and its inhabitants had been shaken to the very core.

And so had he.

He entered his mansion, the house he had left under such different circumstances a lifetime ago, and the empty entrance hall stared at him like an empty mound. His manservant had left some candles burning, both here and in his study, knowing fully well, that James appreciated a quiet drink amidst his charts and books, especially since...

The silence between dusty parchment was tangible.

He poured himself a brandy, sitting on a chair and surrendered himself to the rare luxury of what-ifs.

His life had restarted, where he had left off. But he had not escaped hell unchanged. And still, like everyone else in the city, he was trying to make sense of what had happened.

And he missed her.

As much as he told himself all the arguments they had exchanged and agreed on, all the obstacles in their path, the fact, that their attraction had been nothing but a manipulation of Tia Dalma's not the least.

It did not make the image of a careful smile vanish, hidden beneath black strands, windtorn, tinged with a careful fondness.

And for all that he was, he mourned the loss of comfort, the sense of belonging, that it had given him, if only for a while.

* * *

„How is he?"

Elizabeth closed the door behind her and stepped up to Will, who was sitting on a chair in the antechamber, looking out to the constructions within the port.

„Asleep", she answered softly. „Every day a little better." She sighed. „I'm not sure if he understands. Or if he does not try to understand." She stepped close to the window and looked downstairs. So much destruction, there was, all in the name of hatred. The city she had come to love, the city she had come to care about, had been badly wounded, and she did not like it.

„What about you?"

His voice was careful, and he stepped towards her, his hand on her shoulder a source of comfort and warmth. He was still cautious after the riot they had had, still careful in what he said, and how. Elizabeth deeply regretted it, but she guessed, that this would need time, just like everything else.

„I am angry", she answered honestly. „Angry at the destruction wrought."

Will placed his hands around her waist. Now that they were officially engaged, he could even almost officially allow himself this liberty, in private at least, in the relative silence of the governor's mansion. Still a miracle with every passing day.

He took a moment to answer.

„So am I."

Elizabeth frowned. Will was rarely angry, and even though in principle, it was very understanding, the tone in his voice was somehow odd.

„Why?"

He hesitated almost imperceptively before he answered and thus confirmed to Elizabeth, that he was indeed not just talking, that there was a point behind this trail of thought. Suddenly she was glad, that she had asked.

„Because it is my town, too."

She smiled, relieved, even though she had not felt the pressure.

„Indeed?" Her mocking tone was light, almost a banter, and he pressed a small kiss to her shoulder.

„Indeed, Elizabeth. I am marrying the governor's daughter. And I know what this will mean."

„I am sorry for what I said."

Will nodded and turned her around carefully. His face was earnest, but secure.

„I have thought a lot on this, love. They say that there are two sides to every story, and so there are to this as well. You will have to help me, Elizabeth. I have not been brought up as you have, with all these responsibilities and dependencies. But I will try to learn. I promise."

She was almost shamed by his words.

„It is not as if I really gave you a chance."

„Forgiven and forgotten, Elizabeth. There is enough damage to be had around without the two of us fighting about spilled milk. If anything, knowing what I could use, has..."

He never got to finish the sentence. The utter relief at the knowledge of this issue resolved overwhelmed her without warning, and she saw no reason for holding back. Especially, when he was looking at her so intently and when his hands were folded at the small of her back, tender and careful.

She kissed him, softly first, and then, when he responded without question, without hesitation, more roughly, in a mixture of lips and hurried breaths, of warmth, small laughs, and hurried gasps, and when her father's manserved surprised them, ages later, they shot apart laughing and flustered, and as lighthearted, as they probably had not been since they had stopped being children.

* * *

Jack was late.

And uncautious.

And – in plain words – stupid.

All of this shot through his mind as he hurried back to the Black Pearl, already knowing, that it was to no avail. Although, honestly, it never hurt to put on a show.

And, with similar honesty, he was also not really all that sorry.

The Black Pearl had anchored in Tortuga. Of course. After all the trials and tribulations, now it was time to play, and Jack intended to do this in the fullest.

So far, Leonora Halvery had agreed.

In fact, she had agreed to travel on the Black Pearl for a while, and this pleased Jack more than he cared to admit. The spanish woman made up for good company. Temperamental, interesting, diverting good company, to be honest.

Of course, she was to smart for her own good – a trait she shared with Elizabeth – and to arrogant by far, but she was also a challenge, and Jack had never backed away from one of those.

So, to cut a long story short, they had somehow set off together, yesterday evening, and then, mugs and mugs of rum later, he had noticed, that she was missing, and that he had not really known all that well, where she had left off for.

Deciding, that she was a grown girl and could take care of herself, he had had a couple of mugs more – just for good measure, and when he woke up this morning in Jeannie's bed, he realized, that amongst the things he could have done, this may not have been the smartest of all.

Therefore, now, slightly hungover, slightly uneasy and – even though he would not have admitted – slightly worried, he made back for the Black Pearl.

But before he could even reach it, he saw her leaving another ship, a ship that was not his. She looked neither flustered nor dishevelled, but immaculate as most of the time, in skirt and blouse, hair done carefully.

Jack hesitated, and she spotted him, raising a brow in a slightly mocking gesture.

But he was not so unsettled, as not to return it.

It was then, that he realized, that the ship she had just left was the Rosa.

And Castellano, standing on deck, to Jack's eyes seemed to look just the slightest bit smug.

He tried to hide his surprise, while he was sorting out what he thought about this.

Certainly unusual. Unexpected also. Kind of annoying. And yet...

She reached him, cocking her head slightly to the side.

„Good Morning, Captain Sparrow." She sounded slightly mocking, and there was a twinkle in her eye, that told him, that she knew exactly what was going on.

Jack suddenly felt bad to have felt sorry.

And wondered why he had cared.

He grinned. Broadly.

„The very best of mornings, Miss Halvery." In a gesture, that was at the best a mockery of what a nobleman would do, he offered her his arm. „Shall we?"

The smile on Leonora's face widened, and he realized, that maybe she had hidden the same uneasiness behind the same confidence. Peas in a pod, like he had said to Elizabeth a lifetime ago.

„By all means."

She complied and he led her back to the Pearl, grinning openly as he watched the graceful figure at his side, felt her movement as she walked just slightly too close to him.

Neptun's balls. What a woman.


	78. Dawn

**Epilogue 2: Dawn**

He came home earlier that day, the sun barely touching the horizon, tired of a strenuous day, and thoroughly fed up with it. He longed to be out on the sea, the sun in his face and wind in his eyes, longed for action to loose himself in, but at the moment, the city being what it was, there was not even the slightest possiblity to carry out a raid.

Which left him feeling off-kilter and unhappy, the remembrances of the strange story past still overmore present in his mind.

He opened the door and entered the hall, left his hat on the hatstand at the entrance and placed his weapon's belt on the hook next to it. He stepped onto the staircase to go up to his study to shrug off his coat to get rid of the stifling government, when his manservant arrived from the direction of the drawing room, slightly unsettled and hasty.

„Commodore!" He had stopped to flinch at his old title and habits had settled in again, but the agitation of the man was unusual, and he turned, fully alert. „I... am sorry sir. But you have a visitor. In... in the garden."

It was certainly not like him to stutter, certainly not like him, to be so unsettled, and he asked, worried, „who?"

The man shook his graying head, uncertainly.

„Wouldn't know her, sir, beg your pardon. She was just there. I did not let her in. But she would not leave..." and when James turned towards the direction of the garden, he spoke up again. „Sorry sir, really dreadfully sorry. But maybe you'd better take those." He took the weapon's gear off the hook and handed it to his master, in an almost hasty gesture. „There's something peculiar about her, sir. A way of looking, if you mean. It would probably be better."

Now truly worried, James complied, and when he stepped into the garden he did so carefully, as not to be surprised.

It was not necessary. Quite to the contrary.

At a first glance, he did not even spot her. Half hidden between a blooming bush and a tree , her blue dress blended in with the the sky and the sea that could be seen from the garden, that was spilling down the hillside.

And even then, it took him a moment to recognize.

The dress was immaculate, beautifully, if simply tailored, in a perfect fit, the cloth light but robust. The hat coming with it was rather small, but of the same color, hiding much of her dark hair, which was bound into a simple knot at the nape of her slender neck.

It was the posture that gave her away. Patient and unobtrusive, her shoulders squared but slightly tense, the head bowed a little, as if trying not to take up too much space.

He froze in his tracks, wondering for a moment, if a remnant of the strange forces that had played with him, had conjured her upon his very thoughts.

His heart stopped for a moment, then continued at a wilder pace. He had not hoped to see her again, at the very least not here, at the very least not like this. Immense relief and joy fought with worry and an old impulse to distance himself, to remain calm and conscious, not to loose his head to the manipulation of others.

And then, awestruck, trembling almost, he whispered her name.

„Susannah."

She did not vanish, as ghosts do when called, but flinched softly and then turned.

He understood why his servant had been frightened at the tone in her eyes, intense, nervous, painful, and with the final remnants of something old and powerful, and yet, all that he saw was her, and that she had indeed come back.

She uttered a tiny sound, somewhere between cry, a breath and a sigh, and that was all the encouragement he needed to rush towards her and enfold her in his arms, all distance between them forgotten after the endless, painful time between then and now.

His quick movement pushed her hat back, sent it flying over the grass, but neither did care. She hid her face at his neck and he buried himself into the smell of forest and rain that was her hair and for a moment forgot who, and where he was in the face of this unexpected miracle.

When he came to his senses, trembling, but remotely steady again, he distanced himself slightly, taking her face in his hands, carefully, as if she were to vanish if he touched her too firmly, and watched her, shaking her head.

„How...", he asked, confused. „Why...?"

She shrugged softly and shook her head.

„I don't know." She sounded incredibly, inexplicably lost. „James... I don't know."

He closed his eyes, overwhelmed with relief, confusion and the powerful urge to protect her, from whatever it was, that would do her harm.

She continued, softly, eyes closed, her head hardly moving in his hands.

„Nothing has changed. And yet..." She placed a hand carefully, first on his chest, then on his shoulder. „I was so lost there, alone with her. So lost..." He made a soft, soothing noise, but her fingers moved to his lips, silencing him effectively. „I am not what she wants me to be."

She opened her eyes again and her fingers traced from his lips, back down until where his collar began, and something within him shook in response. „And... I can touch, and I no images will come." His hands slid to her shoulders as she slightly tilted her head and watched him intently. „I want to come back. Be a seamstress in Port Royal again... take up what my mother did..."

„It is real. I don't know how, I don't know why. But it is real." Seemingly unconnected with the previous conversation was this the only thing that he could think of, and she nodded softly. „I know."

He carefully traced the lines of her face, looking for changes, finding worry and traces of pain that he had not seen yet. Her eyes were silent and tired.

„Have you been well?" he asked, knowing the answer already before she spoke.

„No. But I am back now, at least."

He nodded and kissed her, feeling her clinging to him as if she were drowning, and he wondered what had happened, but then her fingers met behind his neck, tracing tiny circles there, and he chose not to question. Not now.

Slowly she relaxed, and he knew her well enough to tread the small path between, closeness and care, the manner with which one would approach a wounded deer, and every gesture soothed him as well as it soothed her.

Only now, that it was over, he acutely felt the agony that had been her absence, when he knew he would not see her again.

„You will stay in the city?"

He held her close, their foreheads touching, breaths mingling.

„I will take up my mother's business." He waited, patiently, for her to continue, seconds spreading to eternities. „As for everything else.." She closed her eyes. „We will see, James. Give it time."

He nodded slowly, carefully, not to loose the contact between them.

„I will. But I will be your friend, if you allow it. You know that I...", but he did not dare, despite the rush of happiness that was running in his veins, despite the fact, that his heart beat the words so loudly, that it would only require the most minor of efforts to allow them to be spoken. And yet he would not spook her... or himself. „... I will help you wherever I can", he concluded instead, and this elicited a smile as he had only rarely seen it, frank, almost open and wonderful, dimples and the pale sunspots making her seem years younger.

„Thank you", she whispered. „And I will be your friend if you need it."

„I do." The relief in his voice was so quick, that the smile became even more radiant, as he took her fingers in his and placed them on his chest. „Lord knows I do."

This earned him a small, playful kiss, and at this moment, he was not sorry for the moment of weekness.

„And everything else, time will tell", she continued, more in earnest than ever before.

„Time will tell...", he confirmed.

But this evening, when the sun slowly left the sky and made way for the stars, time was unnecessary, irrelevant, as they stayed outside, now in silence, now in speech. The world realigned and shifted around them, and for a few stolen hours in time, everything, everything was well.


	79. Author's note: Curtain call

And this then is the end...

Feels strange, to me. As if I've lost a limb, or something. This story has been with me for so long.

I hope I have brought it to a satisfactory conclusion, hope, that after so long I managed to cross most of the ts and dot most of the is, as they say.

I thank all of you for reading, and those who commented also for reviewing. I hope, that the story could bring a small measure of pleasure and interest to you.

At the end of all things, some questions remain unanswered. I know.

What was it, that made Susannah go back? What happened, that made her flee Tia Dalma, even though she is very aware, that her sanity is hanging on a small thread without the tutelage she received?

And why does she feel safe in Port Royal, safe from the witch? In other words – why is it that Tia Dalma never left her island?

And what is to become of her – and James? What is to become of them?

And Leonora, lady and scoundrel, what will she do, now that she seemingly has lost everything and gained freedom? Is she dancing between Jack and Fernando just for pleasure's sake?

And Fernando himself, more entangled now in the webs of the english, empowered by his knowledge, and equally endangered by it – what will the events do to the plans he had, the mission he was following?

The reason for the questions open is, that the story is not fully told. There is – there was – more in my mind to this Pirates' universe of mine, and I decided to keep the ending in the spirit I originally had, for authenticity's sake.

Now that I spent time on this story again, the idea of the sequel has been bubbling up again. I consider giving it a shot, drafting a bit, seeing where it leads me, and if you and me, we would like to take another trip into the Carribean together.

Keep your ears up, if you're interested.

There may be more.

And with this, I draw the curtain - for now.

Spirit


End file.
